Have Tomorrow
by Lawson227
Summary: Karen Vick suffers a loss and surprisingly, it's Lassiter who not only understands, but is there to pick up the pieces.   Definitely non-canon territory but assume spoilers through all current episodes.
1. Chapter 1

**Have Tomorrow**

Sadly, **psych** is still not mine, no matter how nicely I ask. No infringement intended, TPTB own all, Imma just playing.

Dedicated though I might be to Lassie/Jules, the pairing of Lassiter/Vick intrigues me more than a little, so I'm experimenting a bit. Yes, it's non-canon, but given how little we've seen her this season, anything's possible.

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><p>"Mr. Spencer—"<p>

Carlton's head snapped up from the files in which he'd been buried for the better part of the afternoon at the sharp rebuke. Peering around the edge of his computer monitor, he caught sight of the Chief gripping the edges of the conference room table looking as if she was one wrong word shy of reaching for her weapon. Granted, Carlton could relate, but it would be entirely too difficult to explain shooting one of the department's leading consultants, even if it would be completely justifiable on the grounds of total idiocy. Besides, he didn't feel like getting acclimated to a new chief.

Grabbing his mug he headed for the coffee station, conveniently located beside the conference room door.

"While I appreciate the… _gesture_, a Bon Voyage party was in no way necessary. Or authorized. So please… clear all of this away so we can get back to work."

"But Chief, you're going on your first vacation in—" From Carlton's vantage point he could see Spencer look to Guster for assistance—unfortunately, Guster was currently occupied with staring longingly at the cake resting in the middle of the conference room table. Realizing he wasn't going to get an intelligible answer, Spencer resumed babbling. "Your first vacation in a… a really long time. This is a moment worthy of celebration. Celebration that should be celebrated with delicious cheesy flavor. Which is why we brought the pineapple cheesecake. That will also serve to soothe our souls of the pathos sure to grip us in your absence and the tragedy that is your choice of Lassie to run the show while you're—"

"Mr. Spencer, _please_—"

Okay, that was it. In all the years he'd known Karen Vick, he'd heard her angry, amused, scathing, worried, tough, calculating, hell, even cold. He'd never, ever heard her sound _defeated_. Carlton abandoned all pretense of coffee and strode into the conference room, incongruously festooned with metallic streamers and a glittery banner emblazoned with, for some inexplicable reason, "Sayonara, Harry!"

"Hey Lassie!" Shawn called out brightly. "Come to join in on the fun? Oh, wait—that would imply you actually know _how_ to have fun." He smirked and resumed pouring out bowls of Cheetos, Doritos, and Cheese Nips.

Guster sidled up beside him and pointed to the banner. "Borrowed," he said, before offering Carlton a cheese-wedge shaped hat. "They had them on discount at the party store, so Shawn decided it could be the theme for the party."

"Carlton—" He turned to find Karen staring up at him from a chair. "Please."

"Get out," he barked to the two Village Idiots, smacking the cheese-wedge hat out of a startled Guster's hands.

"Now, Lassie, just because you're not in the mood for a party doesn't mean you have to spoil the fun for the rest of us." Shawn's smug grin looked even more stupid than usual from beneath the brim of his own cheese-wedge headgear.

"Shawn, what's going on?" O'Hara came bustling in, stopping short at the scene that greeted her. "Carlton, why's your hand on your weapon?"

"O'Hara, if you value your boyfriend's life, you'll get him and his half-wit best friend the hell out of here."

Her glance took in the room, fine blonde brows drawing together at the sight of their normally austere and businesslike conference room transformed into some crack-addled cheese palace. "What _is_ all of this?"

"Come on, Jules—work with me here. You can still recognize the signs of a party, right? We just want to wish the Chief a happy vacation and see if we can bring her to her senses and get her to declare you the interim instead of Lassie. Here, we have a party hat for you, too." Shawn oozed up beside his girlfriend, trying to place another one of the stupid hats on her head, stopping only when she hit him with a glare.

Her worried gaze glanced over the chief, who sat unmoving outside of methodically rubbing at her temples, before briefly meeting Carlton's. "Shawn, I'm guessing the chief doesn't exactly _want_ a party."

"Jules, everyone wants a party."

_Jesus __Christ._ For someone who played the psychic shtick so effectively, Spencer was remarkably obtuse. Carlton's grip tightened on his Glock, loosening only at his partner's subtle "let me handle him" head shake. He turned his attention to the chief, uncharacteristically staring off into the distance, the fingers of her right hand now twisting the simple gold band she wore on her left.

"Shawn, not now, okay?"

"But Jules—"

"Shawn, we better go, man." Thankfully, Guster finally snapped out of his cheesecake-induced spell enough to realize this was a really, _really_ bad idea.

"Fine." Spencer sighed and sounded put-upon in the way only a self-entitled jackass could. "Should we take the cheesecake, you think? It's not going to keep well—"

"Take the damned cake and get the hell out, Spencer," Carlton snapped, all patience deserting him at the sight of Karen repeatedly twisting the band back and forth, back and forth, sometimes sliding it completely free of her finger before settling back into place, then beginning the pattern all over again.

He watched them collect the food—though not the decorations, despite Guster's worried burblings over having to return the banner by seven, lest his neighbor discover it missing before the going away party _he_ was hosting—and file out the door. Last out was O'Hara, her concerned gaze meeting his over her shoulder. He shrugged in response, the silent communication honed over six years of partnership letting her know that no, he had no goddamned clue either, but he knew something wasn't right. Just as he knew that she'd understand his nod meant he'd try to get to the bottom of things.

With a final nod, she quietly closed the door behind herself. Thankfully, the shades were all drawn, since Spencer and Guster had clearly thought to make this a surprise. Idiots. Still hadn't figured out that the worst possible people to surprise were cops.

He pulled a second chair alongside Karen's and dropped into it. For a long time he simply sat there, alternating between watching her play with her ring and staring at his own interlaced fingers, hanging loosely between his knees.

"Thank you." At its usual volume her voice had sounded normal, if a bit strained. Those two words, however, spoken barely above a whisper, sounded raw and pained and served to reinforce Carlton's suspicions.

"When did he leave?" he asked quietly, knowing damn well he not only might not get an answer, he might well get his ass chewed out—deservedly so. God knows, he hadn't wanted to talk about it when it happened to him and woe be to anyone who might've asked.

No one had.

Silence echoed throughout the room, heavy with the weight of his question hanging in the air along with the tacit acknowledgement that he'd guessed right.

_Damn_. Just… damn. It wasn't often he hated being right—this had to rank right up there with one of the worst occurrences ever.

"A week ago." She twisted the ring fully off and let it drop to the table, the gold circle landing with a dull clatter against the polished wood. Even from this distance Carlton could see the evidence of many years' worth of wear: the scratches and nicks, the unevenness of once uniform edges, conforming over time to the unique contours of her finger.

"I took the vacation time so I could get away for a few days and let him move his things out of the house."

Carlton digested this information. "Where's Iris?"

"With my parents. She doesn't know yet. She just thinks Daddy's on a business trip." Her voice rose on the last three words, breaking on an unhappy laugh. "I always thought the only lies I'd ever tell my kid would involve nothing worse than the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. How the hell is she ever going to forgive me for this?"

Carlton listened as her voice rode a high edge of hysteria, sharp and riddled with cracks and waited for the uneasiness to hit. That predictable discomfort that always accompanied painful emotion and that he had no idea how to deal with because… well, because he was bad at dealing with emotions.

He waited, certain it would hit quickly, because it always did and he'd say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing and undeniably make the situation worse and what the hell had he been thinking, swooping in here. Did he think he'd actually be a hero in this sort of situation?

But the uneasiness, the discomfort, it never hit. Not even a twinge and he suddenly understood that it was because this, unfortunately, was something he knew all too well.

"Karen—stop. You're not lying—you're just trying to figure out these new dynamics in a way that won't destroy her. You're protecting her." Carefully, he put his hand over her clenched ones, prepared to draw back at the first sign that she didn't want him anywhere near her.

He was not, however, prepared to have her suddenly slump forward, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder. She didn't sob—even in her grief she was fantastically controlled—but she did cry, quietly and steadily, as the growing dampness of his shirt attested.

One arm around her, he reached with the other to snag a stupidly festive "Happy Trails!" napkin from the stack on the on the table. Patiently, he waited—no rocking, no crooning because instinctively he knew Karen wasn't one for rocking and crooning and besides, one simply didn't do crap like that with the Chief of Police—until finally, she raised her head, strands of dark blonde hair sticking to her forehead, brown eyes damp and swollen, but with no fresh tears that he could see.

Still, looking at her up close for the first time, he could clearly see the bruised circles beneath her eyes, how the fine web of lines at the corners seemed to have deepened, and the unhappy set of her mouth—things that hadn't developed overnight or even over the course of a week. This had clearly been building and he hadn't seen a damned thing.

Some detective he was.

Mindful of the napkin's rough texture, he carefully pressed it to her cheeks before putting it in her hand.

"Blow." He indicated his own nose. He would've held it for her himself, but while she'd been willing to exhibit a fair amount of weakness in his presence, he wasn't sure it extended to helping her blow her nose.

Colleague. Chief of Police, he reminded himself. Could handle multiple classes of firearms.

Woman who'd just had her whole life fall apart around her. Maybe, for the first time, simply Karen—a friend.

He mused over the various distinctions as he grabbed several more napkins and dunked them in a nearby pitcher of ice water. After wringing them out, he silently handed them to Karen, who accepted them with a grateful, and maybe slightly watery, smile. As she placed the damp cloths over her eyes she said, "Sorry."

Idly, he shredded yet another napkin. "About?"

"Unloading on you. Falling apart." A delicate pause. "Your shirt."

He glanced down at his shirt which was decidedly… gooey. Dunking yet another napkin in the pitcher, he used it to swipe at the damp spot before calling it a lost cause. Hell, he'd had worse on him—usually because of Spencer. Tossing the napkin to the table, he settled back into his chair.

"First off, I asked. And you hardly unloaded." Left unsaid was that outside of knowing that her husband had left a week ago, he didn't know jack. Would he ask for more? He chewed on the pad of his thumb as he considered for a moment.

Yeah… Surprisingly, yeah. He would.

Not because he needed to know in that pesky Spencer sort of way where he'd use information gleaned to his own advantage. No. He'd ask because he wanted to know how he could help. If she even wanted the help. He had no idea what sort of support she might be getting from her parents, outside of assistance with Iris—but he seriously doubted that Barb would be any great help in this matter, probably wanting her little sister to get right back on the horse, provided it wasn't a man _she_ was interested in. Like Lassiter.

Carlton shuddered, recalling their one ill-fated lunch. She'd spent a hefty chunk of it detailing how fabulous she was in bed and how lucky he was going to be, to be among the few, the proud—that is, when she wasn't crowing over how she'd beat Karen out for his affections. So much so that he'd almost, _almost_ been tempted to tell her that he was only with her because he couldn't have Karen. Never mind that it would cause even bigger problems between the sisters. And also never mind that it was a blatant _lie_. Christ, the last person he would ever entertain romantic thoughts over was Karen Vick. For one, she was married.

Yeah, he was a prick who'd technically cheated on his wife, but messing around with another man's wife? Oh, hell no.

Second, and perhaps more importantly, she was his boss. Yeah, he was a prick who'd slept with his former partner and jeopardized both their careers, but his boss?

Oh. Hell. No.

Back to the matter at hand, though, no, Barbara Dunlap wouldn't have the first clue how to help her sister. Honestly, he couldn't think of anyone who really could. He had no idea who her friends were—if they were part of a couples' circle like what he and Victoria had had and would avoid a suddenly single woman like she was Typhoid Mary, or were they friends made through her husband who would naturally fall to his side. He really didn't know a whole lot about her, other than she was a damned good cop, because you didn't get to be the Chief of Police at her age without being a damned good cop and yeah, he could finally admit that after all these years. And because he had working knowledge of what it took to become a damned good cop himself, he knew how much time and devotion it took—how the job became everything. A job that she'd somehow balanced for years with a spouse and child. Okay, yeah, the likelihood that she had a lot of friends—if any—that she could rely on in this particular situation probably wasn't all that high.

Which left him.

He was fairly certain there was an entry in the dictionary under 'irony' that he had a better handle on the situation than anyone he could think of off the top of his head.

Bottom line, if Karen needed someone as a sounding board or to simply rage at—he, Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective and notoriously bad people person, would do what it took to make himself available.

Voluntarily.

O'Hara would be so proud. If he told her. Which he wouldn't. Nobody's damned business.

"As far as falling apart," he continued, "everyone's entitled. You do what you have to."

Slowly, Karen drew the wet towel from her eyes although she couldn't quite meet his gaze. "How did you cope?" she asked, tearing the napkins into soggy shreds.

"I got drunk," he answered bluntly. "A lot."

Her gaze rose, brown eyes surprisingly clear. Her mouth worked, as if words were fighting to get out while her hands methodically twisted the shreds of napkin in her lap, stray drops of water squeezing out between her fingers. Fascinated, Carlton watched the visible signs of struggle, unaccustomed to seeing fast, decisive Karen Vick struggle with _anything_. Hell, come to think of it, last time he'd seen her working so hard to get _anything_ out, she'd been in labor and trying to break his hand.

Finally, she stilled, her gaze once again focused on the soggy mess clutched in her hands. "Getting drunk sounds like a great idea." Her voice was very soft.

"It can be," he said carefully. "It can also be monumentally stupid."

"But you'll keep me from doing anything stupid." Her gaze met his. "Won't you?"

Outside the conference room phones rang, footsteps echoed, voices called to each other—their normal world, going on, whether they were there or not. In fact, Karen wasn't even supposed to be there, officially on vacation as of fifteen minutes ago, he noted, with a quick look up at the wall clock. But still—deliberately helping his boss get schnockered? Probably not a good idea.

But then again, what was the alternative? Let her go to a bar and get drunk amongst strangers? It was one thing for him to do it—he was used to it. An image of Karen, alone, at a bar, tossing back drink after drink, trying to drown her unhappiness took shape in his mind's eye. He could just see it—lovely, lonely, unhappy woman drinking alone would draw every lowlife predatory bastard within ten miles to circle her like sharks. Those guys, man, they could smell vulnerability like it was blood and they'd swoop in for the kill.

Which left only one option, really.

"If that's what you want," he answered slowly.

"Yeah, Carlton—" She pushed herself up from her chair with a sigh, looking exhausted and more than a little sad and betrayed. He remembered that look well. He'd seen it all too often in his own mirror. "It's what I want."

He nodded and silently headed for the door—just as he began to turn the knob, her hand came to rest over his, stopping him.

"Carlton?"

He looked down at her bent head. "Yeah?"

"How did you know?"

Out of the corner of his eye he observed the way her thumb absent-mindedly rubbed the indentation on her fourth finger. It would take a while for that to go away, he knew. Years weren't just erased in a matter of minutes.

"The way you were twisting your ring," he confessed. "Like you knew you needed to take it off yet you couldn't quite bear the thought of it. Not yet." He hesitated, but… what the hell. She'd left herself open to him. Least he could do was offer a bit of the same. "I did the same thing. For six months," he quietly confessed. "And even then, after I finally took it off… I'd go home at night and put the thing back on. Like it was some sort of goddamned homing beacon. Like I thought if I wore it, Victoria would somehow know. That it would make her come back."

She laughed, but no humor colored the sound and it definitely didn't reach her eyes. "The things we do, huh?"

"Yeah." He offered his own half smile as he opened the door then began immediately glaring at anyone who shot a questioning glance their way. They could wonder all they wanted. What they didn't know couldn't hurt them. As Karen disappeared into her office with a murmured comment about getting her things, Carlton snagged McNab, instructing him to have the conference room cleaned and to have a bill, charged at time-and-a-half for the extra work, sent to the Psych offices. Not that the little weasels would pay, but Carlton wanted them thinking twice before they pulled that sort of harebrained stunt again. A final thought occurred to him and he ducked back into the conference room where he spotted the sliver of gold, peeking from beneath wads of shredded paper. Quickly, he pocketed the ring and left the room.

Karen emerged from her office, hair brushed, back straight, looking every bit the put-together Chief—until you looked in her eyes. It was all there.

"Ready?" he asked, pulling on his jacket.

She nodded, a familiar look setting her features in determined lines. "Let's go get hammered."


	2. Chapter 2

**Have Tomorrow**

Sadly, **psych** is still not mine, no matter how nicely I ask. No infringement intended, TPTB own all, Imma just playing.

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><p>Oh dear God, who in <em>hell<em> authorized elves? Moreover, who authorized elves to tap dance across her skull… while riding a boat on wildly pitching waves? What were elves doing on a boat anyway? Weren't they supposed to be working their minimum wage jobs making toys for Santa? Maybe that's why they were on the boat. Going back to the North Pole. Maybe she'd see a polar bear. Like that case they'd had. Except polar bears belonged on the South Pole. No, wait. That was penguins. Oh, please, dear God, let them not being going to the South Pole, too. It would make the trip that much longer.

Not that Karen wasn't good on water. She was. She was very, very good. But no stomach could withstand this kind of rough water—not even Barb. In fact, last time they'd both been on a boat in waters this rough, Barb had tossed her cookies while Karen had barely felt a twinge of nausea.

She'd never told Barb she'd seen her losing her lunch, but she _had_ taken video. To save for just the right occasion, of course.

Which would not be today.

Today was just about stopping the damned boat and getting the hell off.

Karen reached out, groping, desperate to find purchase on something that would stop the wild pitching and rolling. Finally, her searching fingers tightened on something—soft, pliant, but an experimental tug showed it to be fairly stable. Tightening her grip, she blinked—

Oh, dear _God_—the elves and their freakin' tap-dancing— Hot bolts of pain speared through both of her eyeballs and along every single hair follicle she possessed. The pitch and roll increased, her stomach lurched, her lifeline slipping through suddenly nerveless fingers.

Instinctively, she squeezed her eyes shut and breathed deep as her cop instincts, honed over a lifetime, kicked in.

Okay, first off, no matter what it felt like there were _no_ elves. The sooner she accepted that, the sooner they would stop their infernal tap dancing.

Check.

Her fingers uncurled and carefully began taking measure of her immediate surroundings. Smooth cotton. A slightly nubbier textured fabric that might also be cotton. Slight give beneath the pressure of her palm.

Okay.

Okay.

Not a boat. A bed. Nice firm mattress. Her hand ranged as far as it could. At least a queen size. Possibly a king.

Check.

She took a cautious sniff, mindful of her still-gurgling stomach. No scent of vanilla or clean laundry or the lingering scent of the cologne her husband wore. Had worn. Still wore. She guessed. But not in their room… _her_ room.

A telltale prickle began at the back of her throat but she swallowed it away, determined to unravel the growing mystery.

There _was_ a scent. Light. Clean. Assuredly masculine with its hint of… sandalwood? She thought.

The evidence was adding up to something she wasn't at all sure she wanted to face.

_Think… think… Karen, what's the last thing you remember?_

An amber river.

A blur of lights.

Laughter… John Belushi… Tears.

So many tears for a life cut too short.

Something warm. Something solid.

Gentle encouragement to let go.

Snippets of images and sensations that teased the edges of her memory then dissipated, stopping just shy of coalescing into a complete picture.

_All right, Vick. This isn't going to fix itself with you sitting here like a terrified six year-old. Time to face the music._

Cautiously, she opened her eyes, squinting into what turned out to be a dim—if thoroughly unfamiliar—bedroom. Yet an unmistakable sense of familiar still lingered—enough to prod her to carefully sit up, groaning as her equilibrium took a nosedive before reasserting itself. Hand to her head, she took further account of her person. The sensible suit she'd worn to work was gone, replaced by an oversized man's t-shirt—and nothing else.

She groaned again, trembling hands pressed against her throbbing skull.

_Please, dear God, no…_

Again, her instincts took over, prompting her to slowly turn and look over her shoulder. She was alone in the bed—a king, she idly noted—a bed only disturbed on one side with only one pillow bearing an indentation.

A sheer sense of relief—so overwhelming it nearly prompted a fresh wave of nausea—washed over her. It wasn't a guarantee by any means, but it was something. And right now, something was a hell of a lot better than what her imagination was manufacturing. Thing was, however, the more pieces revealed, the bigger the mystery got.

She _solved_ mysteries, dammit—she didn't much like _being_ the mystery.

So she'd do what she did best—she'd solve the mystery… _after_ she shaved her tongue.

Thankfully, a door in a far wall had been left far enough ajar to reveal a bathroom. With a new toothbrush waiting on the sink alongside a clean glass and a bottle of aspirin. As she brushed her teeth she considered the mirror—not so much her own reflection, because a quick glance had revealed everything she needed to know—but more what lay behind the mirror.

It _would_ provide the definitive final piece of the puzzle. But given that as she'd brushed her teeth and tossed back aspirin that elusive piece had continued to take on form and substance, providing more detail from the night before, taking a peek in the medicine cabinet would only serve as an invasion of privacy solely to satisfy her own innate curiosity.

There was, however, one invasion of privacy she felt comfortable enacting, pulling the flannel robe from its door-mounted hook, because she was _damned_ if she was going to wander around in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a quick reconnaissance of the bedroom failed to turn up her clothes. Finally, she ventured outside the bedroom and discovered that she had, indeed, been right. The man himself sat with his back to her, sprawled in a chair angled toward the fireplace, a mug at his elbow, dark head bent over a book.

"If you're up to it, there's more coffee in the pot or I can make tea, if you'd rather."

Karen studied his still-bent head, grateful that he seemed to understand she still needed a few moments to acclimate herself to this incredibly bizarre turn of events where she'd found herself in her head detective's home, wearing nothing but a t-shirt that she had to presume was his after having apparently spent the night. _And_ she had the mother of all hangovers. Which brought her back to his question. Taking a tentative breath, she inhaled the heavenly scent of freshly brewed coffee and waited, grateful when the smell didn't trigger any adverse responses. Because seriously, it was a coffee sort of morning. The stronger the better. "Coffee'll be fine, thanks."

"Take a seat." He indicated the sofa as he set his book aside and rose from his chair. And coming face to face with Carlton for the first time this morning, Karen couldn't help but stare. He was wearing a… t-shirt. A worn UC Santa Barbara t-shirt that was the navy blue counterpart to the gray shirt she currently wore. And flannel pajama pants. And… he was barefoot. She blinked, but no, they were still there. He had… feet.

_Of course he has feet you ninny. What'd you think? That he sleeps in suits and a gun holster?_

Actually, it wouldn't have surprised her.

The surprises didn't stop with what he was wearing. His hair, every strand normally sternly in place, was rumpled and sticking up in spikes and cowlicks that she _knew_ had never seen the light of day outside these four walls. And while his eyes were completely clear and alert, and nowhere near as bloodshot as hers, the bastard, there nevertheless surrounded him a sleepy air of relaxation that was completely, utterly foreign to everything she knew about Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective.

Which was precious little, she realized. She knew what his job evaluations said, of course, both the ones that predated her tenure as well as the ones she herself had written. She knew what his psych eval said. But nowhere in any of those documents lay indication that this man standing in front of her actually existed.

Maybe she was still drunk. And passed out. That could be the only possible explanation.

"Karen?" He was staring at her, brows drawn together in the first sign of familiarity she'd seen so far. "Are you all right? Are you going to be sick again?"

"Again?" Her voice emerged rusty and ached with a telltale raw pain that she recalled from the earliest days of her pregnancy. Oh yeah—she'd been sick all right. The revelations just kept getting better and better, didn't they?

"Yeah. Again. I rinsed our clothes off and left them to air out on the balcony until I could take them to the dry cleaners."

The memory resurfaced, clearer this time, of warm support as she heaved violently, a soothing voice telling her it was okay to let go. That he'd hold her.

"Jesus—I'm sorry." He shrugged, clearly unconcerned. "So how'd I get into—" She gestured at the t-shirt visible beneath the robe.

"I started hosing you off in the shower—fully clothed—" he clarified, "hoping that you'd sober up enough to finish by yourself, but you were having none of it and started flinging stuff off. The minute your shirt landed on my head, I closed the shower curtain and prayed you didn't drown. After you were done, I helped you out and got you in the t-shirt. Not an easy task to accomplish behind a heavy towel and with eyes closed, by the way."

"Thank you," she muttered weakly, trying to envision the scenario he'd just described in cold, almost clinical terms and succeeding, all too well. As her face flamed, he crossed his arms and regarded her with a raised-eyebrow stare. "At any rate, since the sofa is new, the last thing I want to spend a Saturday doing is deep cleaning it so just try to give me fair warning if you're going to hurl again, all right?"

Oh, thank God, another taste of familiarity: that annoyingly arrogant and often grating tone, but for the first time, she heard something more beneath it. Or maybe it was just that she wanted to hear the concern she imagined?

"I'm fine, Carlton." It took some effort, but she was able to inject a fairly healthy measure of her usual exaggerated forbearance into the response.

With a ghost of a half-grin and a nod, he moved past her. "All right, then—I suppose it's safe for you to take a seat." And again, the sarcastic Lassiter-ism was accompanied by something completely unexpected—in this case, a brief, gentle squeeze to her upper arm as he passed by on his way to the kitchen.

Too restless and frankly, still way too humiliated to take an immediate seat, she instead wandered the living room, taking in the changes that time had wrought in the past few years since she'd set foot in his home. Gone was the Crime Wall, thank God, and while some expected Carltonesque artwork adorned the walls, there were also pictures scattered about and a surprisingly graceful and oddly appropriate grouping of blooming cacti near the hearth. With the comfortable looking furniture, jazz playing quietly in the background, and a fire blazing away, combating the rare gray dampness outside, the entire space seemed more welcoming rather than the austere and lonely she remembered.

From behind her she heard his voice. "You remember her, of course."

She replaced the photograph of the man and woman posing in front of what looked like a Balinese temple and turned away from the mantle. "Detective Goochberg? Kind of difficult to forget."

"That she is." He grinned as he handed her one of two steaming mugs. "Two sugars, light cream," he said in response to her cautious sip. As she felt her eyebrows go up he added, "If after six years I haven't noticed how my boss takes her coffee I'd be a pretty crappy detective, wouldn't I?" Beneath the mild response lay an even milder rebuke that made her take another glance at the picture she'd been studying.

"You still haven't quite forgiven me for that, have you?"

Carlton shrugged as he resumed his seat in the overstuffed chair, clearly his favorite, as she took in the gooseneck reading lamp illuminating the neat stack of books on the end table, a remote resting alongside. "Kind of a difficult thing to forgive, Karen."

"But it worked," she retorted as she finally took a seat on the sofa alongside neatly folded bed linens and a pillow.

Dark eyebrows rose. "Worked?"

She leaned forward slightly, ignoring the mild rebelling of sore stomach muscles. "Let me ask you this, Carlton—if I'd pointed out the road I saw you going down— If I'd said in a few years I saw you becoming even more tense and bitter, even more gun-happy, even more antisocial, and well on your way to a heart attack, would you have believed me?"

"No." His answer was flat and immediate.

"Of course not," she agreed. "You didn't trust me then—you had absolutely no reason to. And let's face it, we're our own worst judges of self." Wings of pain began fluttering against the inside of her chest at the words, but she beat them back. If she could just concentrate on Carlton, on what she'd done to protect him, she could hold her own pain at bay, for just a little longer. Just a little longer… _please_…

"So you're saying you partnered me with Gooch to… help me?"

Doubt practically dripped from the last two words, more evidence of the Carlton she knew so well, but this morning's hypersensitivity allowed her to easily hear the honest curiosity so evident beneath the sarcasm. "You're an excellent cop, Carlton. The last thing I wanted you turning into was Detective Goochberg. But I couldn't say anything, because you would have never believed that was a possibility. And if by some chance in hell you had believed me, you would have interpreted my interference as motivated by some ulterior motive or worse still, pity, and we both know how you'd feel about _that_. Not to mention, there's that little issue you have with accepting help. From anyone." She relaxed back into the sofa cushions, sighing as they embraced her sore muscles, pretending not to hear his not-quite sotto voce mumblings about pots and kettles. He was entitled, after all. Not as if _she_ had much of a leg to stand on or anything.

After a long silence he finally spoke again though he couldn't quite meet her eyes. "I wasn't partnered with O'Hara just to show her the ropes, either, was I?"

Karen shrugged but said nothing. If he was self-aware enough to ask that question, then he already knew the answer.

They drank the remainder of their coffee in comfortable silence underscored by mellow music and the steady sound of rain drumming against his roof. It wasn't until after he handed her a fresh cup along with a slice of toast that he spoke again. "Gooch went to Bali on her doctor's advice after the heart attack. He'd told her to find somewhere as far away and as relaxing as she possibly could. Wound up meeting a guy from Schenectady in search of spiritual enlightenment, they eloped, and now they run a Mexican cantina-slash-spiritual retreat on the beach. Sends me a Christmas card every year." After a pause he softly added, "I'm glad she's happy."

There it was. Her opening. He'd been so good about accommodating her whims, from her request to get hammered to her silent pleas to not talk about this… not yet. It was far more subtle than she'd ever give him credit for—this opening to talk or not—framed around an entirely different topic altogether.

"I'm okay." She tore a small piece off the toast and carefully chewed. "At least, I think I will be."

"Bullshit," he answered conversationally. Her gaze rose and met his, a muted blue-gray, as if echoing the day outside and the topic at hand. "You'll have good moments and bad moments, but honestly, you'll have more bad—at least for a while. But 'okay' is the last thing you're going to be, Karen." He turned his gaze toward the fireplace and spoke softly, his normally resonant voice nearly lost within the crackling of the flames. "You don't have to try to be okay around me."

A shaky breath shuddered through her, suddenly nerveless fingers dropping the toast to the plate. A split second later it was gone, set on the table alongside her abandoned coffee. She looked down at Carlton, now sitting on the floor in front of her.

Desperate to beat the source of the pain back—at least for just a little while longer, she asked, "What the hell happened last night?" A little too fast. A little too panicked. And it would ultimately lead to the inevitable, she knew, facing up to the _why_ of it all, but maybe, just maybe, there would be something in there to distract her. Just for a little while longer. Maybe Carlton, with the surprising prescience he'd shown so far, would get it. Would know what she needed.

To her relief, he didn't disappoint, looking up at her and flashing a grin that brought to mind a hell-raising little boy, despite the morning beard and the silver generously peppering his hair. "Well, for one thing, I discovered you're a surprisingly entertaining drunk."

Visions of far too many rowdy collegiate bacchanals flashed through her mind prompting her to bury her suddenly flaming face in her hands. "Oh God."

"Seriously, I've never known anyone who actually _knew_ all the lyrics to 'Blinded by the Light.'"

"Oh _God_."

"It was when you started to get into the argument with the biker over the lyrics to 'Bad Moon Rising' that I figured we were better off out of the public eye," he continued. "Tactical error on my part, that. So I dragged you out of the bar, stopped by a liquor store, and brought you here. Figured it was safer. We broke out the Jack and spent most of the night watching the John Belushi marathon on HBO."

Well, that explained John Belushi.

She parted her fingers just far enough to see him, arms looped around his upraised knees as he stared into the fire. "Um, Carlton, when you say _dragged_ me from the bar, you do mean metaphorically, right?" Her voice was equal parts hopeful and pained resignation. With a healthy dose of whining that she couldn't even bring herself to hate.

He flashed another hell-raising grin over his shoulder. "Do you really want me to answer that, Karen?"

Oh dear _God_. "Jerk."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "Not the first time I've heard it."

"Sorry," she mumbled, before easing onto her side, suddenly exhausted. A second later, she felt herself lifted slightly, the pillow that had been stacked with the bed linens tucked beneath her aching head. "Sorry," she repeated, even as she readjusted, finding a more comfortable position. "I can't seem to stop taking over your life."

"For God's sake, would you relax? I volunteered and I meant it." Blearily, she watched as he shook out the blanket and draped it over her. "Look, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What are…" He paused, the indentation of his cheek indicating that he was chewing the inside of it. A habit he only indulged in when wrestling with something he found especially perplexing or difficult. How did she know that? Not like it was anything detailed in any of his evaluations. Before she could ponder it further, however, his shoulders rose with a deep, decisive breath. "Do you have any plans—really—for this… vacation?"

"Not really," she confessed. "I originally thought I'd stay with my parents, so I could be with Iris, but I'm afraid I'll be too much of an emotional wreck. I kind of want to have it together before we—" her throat slammed shut as the realization that this might be the last time she used that term in that context hit her. She sniffed back sudden tears and fought off a fresh wave of nausea. "Before we—" she tried again and once again, her throat closed.

Carlton held up a hand, his mouth in a tight line. "I get it." He turned away, leaning over to pull the blanket more completely over her feet, but the tense set to his shoulders betrayed an unmistakable anger. "I am so goddamned sorry, Karen." His voice emerged low and rough as he tucked the blanket more securely around her. "I can't even begin to imagine how that must make you feel—knowing you have to tell her such a thing." He settled back into his knees upraised, staring into the fire position, something in the lines of his face prompting Karen to recall how he'd looked, holding Iris seconds after she'd been born. She'd almost forgotten that—that he'd been first person to hold her daughter after the doctor.

"I don't know your ex from Adam, but I hope for both your sakes he's a man about it."

Maybe she was still more than a little hungover and most assuredly exhausted to the point of stupidity by the emotional turmoil of the last week, but she'd be damned if she didn't hear a definite threat underlying his statement. One that brought a grim smile to her face.

Carlton might have a lot of failings, but one thing she knew for certain was that the man possessed a streak of honor and protectiveness a mile wide, always trying to do what was right. Sometimes what he thought was right turned out to be unbelievably, fantastically _wrong_, but admittedly, those days were fewer and further between and one could never argue that his intentions were always generally good.

"So you basically have no plans, then?"

Her shoulder rose in response, the blanket sliding from her shoulder. "I thought maybe I'd drive up the coast. Find somewhere quiet to stay." Although the thought of getting in her car—or any moving vehicle for that matter—made the nausea come rolling back in full force. She just hoped her ex didn't pick today to come by the house to get stuff. She just needed to shut the world away and pretend none of it existed. For, like... ever. That would be a good place to start.

"You shouldn't be alone."

"What are the alternatives, Carlton?" she asked wearily, rubbing her gritty eyes.

Blinking sleepily, it took a moment for his response to penetrate. But no… there was no way she could have possibly heard what she thought she heard. Right?

"Did you say something?"

"I said—you're welcome to stay here." While the words were delivered in Carlton's usual brusque, no-nonsense manner, his body language practically shouted uncertainty. He was afraid, she realized. Afraid that she'd say no or that she'd laugh or whatever negative, horrible reaction he was expecting. Not like she'd ever given him much reason to expect anything else.

"Look, I have a spare bedroom. With its own bathroom. You could hide out there as long as you like. You don't have to talk to me or anyone else if you don't want. But at least you won't be completely alone." His gaze held hers, his eyes far bluer than they'd been earlier, the light in them, despite his obvious uncertainty, exceedingly direct, exceedingly kind, and exceedingly compelling. "Being alone at a time like this sucks so damned much, Karen. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy." He paused, reconsidered, then added, "Okay, maybe my worst enemy—I'm not a saint, after all." After a shared laugh, he continued, "But I wouldn't wish it even on Spencer. If that tells you anything."

A second laugh escaped her, unbidden, along with a few stray tears that somehow turned into more, damn them. Jesus, she really didn't want to cry. She was so damned tired of crying.

Like the day before, Carlton remained very quiet and still, his hand merely resting near hers on the sofa until he sensed she was done. And like the day before, he then very carefully used a napkin to blot her face, mindful to not rub or irritate her already painful eyes.

"I shouldn't—" But it sounded weak, even to her own ears.

"Yeah, you should. You really, really should." He smiled and pressed the napkin into her hand, pointing at his nose. "Blow."

Clutching the napkin in her fist, she studied his face, looking for any signs at all that this was pity. Because he wasn't the only one who hated that emotion—how else had she so readily recognized it in him? Like understood like. "Are you sure?"

"Please." A reassuringly familiar disdainful expression crossed his face. "I wouldn't offer if I wasn't." His chest rose and fell beneath navy cotton, prompting his next words to emerge on a fast, sibilant hush. "And if I didn't like you."

He liked her.

Once upon a time, Karen might have thought that not just improbable, but downright impossible. Even if he did try to make it sound like an afterthought, she knew damn well he wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it. Just like he knew damn well if she imagined his offer was prompted solely out of pity, she'd be hauling ass out of there as fast as her hungover, flannel-robed ass could manage.

"Okay." With the agreement, her muscles loosened, as if finally giving her permission to relax.

"Good. Do you need to get anything from your house?"

"I've got bags in my car," she mumbled sleepily.

Through the foggy haze of oncoming sleep, she felt the blanket being tucked more securely around her. "You sleep, I'll go get it later," he said softly.

"'Kay." Breathing deep, she settled more deeply into the cushions' embrace, the scent of sandalwood she'd encountered in his bedroom surrounding her.

Completely familiar now—and completely comforting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Have Tomorrow**

Yeah, still not much with the owning of **psych**. As usual, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', I'm just building sandcastles on this lovely little stretch of beach.

* * *

><p>"You cook."<p>

In one smooth, practiced motion, Lassiter slammed the knife down on the cutting board, reached for his weapon—and came up with… oh, for crap's sake, the freakin' kitchen towel. Because he was at home and wasn't wearing his holster. Damned therapist had advised him some time back it was a bad habit he really needed to break and finally, he'd reluctantly agreed. Not that he'd ever admit it, but it _was_ kind of nice to not have the constant weight and restriction—mildly terrifying from time to time—but nice.

"Carlton, what the hell?" Karen stood in the kitchen's entrance staring at him like he'd lost his mind. Not an unusual expression from her, but there was usually a desk between them and never before had she been wearing his robe.

The tips of his ears burning, he turned back to the cutting board, flinging the towel back over his shoulder. "Sorry. You surprised me. Force of habit."

"I suppose I should be grateful you didn't put me in a head lock."

He didn't have to look to know she was smiling.

"What about all your spares?"

Aw, hell. He'd forgotten she would have known about those.

"Down to one," he replied shortly as he chopped carrots with maybe a bit more force than absolutely necessary.

"Per room?"

Hardy har har. Carlton knew she was only teasing and God knows, it was deserved teasing. Even if it had only ever been a simple matter of preparedness, which _no_ one seemed to get, even after that preparedness had saved not only his own ass, but Spencer's as well. Still—

Sighing, he dumped the carrots into the Dutch oven and moved onto the onions. "Just one, period. Mounted behind the bookcase, in case you have need of it."

For several moments, the only sounds came from the vegetables sautéing in the hot oil and the rhythmic tattoo of his blade against the rock maple cutting board.

"Carlton, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"My therapist thought they provided a false wall of security behind which I hid emotionally." He tried to sound bored with the oft-heard dictum, punctuating it with a dismissive shrug, but he could nevertheless still feel the sting of the shrink's blunt assessment, even though it had been more than two years. "Truth is, it's not like a man with my skills needs more than a service revolver, but a spare's never a bad thing."

"Good point." Karen's voice was surprisingly mild as she entered the kitchen far enough for him to catch sight of her at the edges of his peripheral vision but not so close as to crowd him. It was as if she sensed he needed space after his unexpected confession, because seriously, he had _not_ expected to confess not only what the therapist had said, but that he'd taken the quack's advice—_ever_. Hell, he'd never expected to confess that he was still seeing the money-grubbing whackjob to anyone.

Ever.

"So, what are you making?"

He breathed a sigh of relief that at least for the moment, she wouldn't be pursuing his slip any further. "Chicken soup. Lot of protein, but it'll be easy on your stomach."

Now she edged closer, eyes wide, if still a little swollen and bloodshot. "But you could've just opened a can of something. You certainly didn't have to go to any trouble on my—"

He dumped the onions into the pot. "I didn't." From the corner of his eye he caught a brief flash of… something, crossing her face. _Damn_. _Nice __move, __Lassiter._

Ducking his head as he opened the oven, he tried again. "What I mean is, I've lived alone for nearly seven years and takeout gets old in a hurry, so it was either learn how to cook or starve. Turns out, I find it… relaxing." He pulled the pan of roasted chicken breasts from the oven and set them on a rack to cool. Left with nothing to do for a few moments, he finally turned to face her fully.

As he'd already noted, her eyes were alert if still bearing the war wounds of her various crying jags. He hadn't even told her about the one she'd burst into during _Blues __Brothers_ or the crying she'd done in her sleep. Nor would he. Some things were better kept on the down low. All things considered though, for a woman who'd experienced emotional trauma and gone on a massive bender, she looked pretty good—face clear except for the redness and creasing on one cheek from the pillow and if her hair was sticking up a little wildly, it was no worse than how his looked earlier.

"What about you?" he asked, gesturing at the stove and trying to keep things light. Not too focused on why they were in this bizarre scenario to begin with. "Do you… cook?"

She shrugged as she leaned against the counter, too-big folds of blue plaid flannel slipping from one shoulder. "Basic stuff. Burgers, spaghetti—stuff that starts out in a box and can be made quickly. Except for red beans and rice." Memory softened the normally chiseled lines of her face. "My mom's family is from New Orleans and my grandma made certain that Barb and I both knew how to make a decent pot of red beans and rice. Make it about once a month. My hus—"

As she froze, breath hissing in on a sharp inhalation, Carlton jumped in. "It's okay, Karen." He swiftly grabbed a glass from a cabinet and filled it with water. Pressing it into her suddenly shaking hand he said, "It's going to be that way for a while. Everything you say or do is going to remind you of him and what you had in some way. Even things you hate. _Especially_ things you hate." He stopped, then added, "Or maybe that's just me."

He kept his gaze locked with hers as he helped steady her still shaking hand. At her nod, he slowly lowered his hand and watched as she took several sips of water. Finally, she squared her shoulders and shook her hair back and damn, if the woman didn't have guts and the kind of nerves of steel most Navy Seals would kill for. "Anyhow," she said as if the emotional hammer had been nothing but a tap, "Suffice it to say, I've never really had patience for recipes."

Well, if she could play this game, then he damn well could too—especially if would help.

"I didn't used to either." But then that whackjob therapist had insisted he continue pushing out of his comfort zone and work on developing patience in the process. Which Carlton was perfectly fine with, so long as he could find a comfort zone within the non-comfort zone.

"So how'd you get from no patience to making your own homemade chicken soup?"

"I thought of it like assembling a weapon."

Her brows rose beneath the messy fringe of her bangs. "Come again?"

He grinned over his shoulder as he stirred salt into the vegetables. "It's methodical in the same sort of way. And a full menu is like planning a tactical assault."

A full-out smile blossomed across her face—a little quivery around the edges, but really, all things considered, an honest-to-God full-out smile. The first one he could remember seeing in… a long time. "Only you, Carlton."

He snorted. "Yeah, I guess." He turned to the cooled chicken breasts and began pulling the meat from the bone.

"I meant it as a compliment."

Not likely. But at least for the moment she was focused on something other than her own drama and hey, at least she wasn't laughing and mocking openly. For a guy like him, maybe that was as good as a compliment. "Thanks."

A moment later, she disappeared from his line of sight and from the sound of it, took a seat on one of the kitchen island's stools, silently watching as he finished preparing the soup and set it to a low simmer. After washing his hands, he tossed the dishtowel to the counter and turned to her.

"I suppose you want a chance to clean up—for real." Okay, the last part was uncalled for. Tactless. Most assuredly jerkish. Classic Carlton Lassiter in all respects. And yet he couldn't help but grin, because the more she drew her brows together and tried to give him a patented Karen Vick glare, the more pink suffused her face and the more she looked shockingly and utterly girlish. Quite approachable, really.

"I went and got your car while you were sleeping. Your bags are in the guest room already. Come on, I'll show you."

He led her through the condo to the guest room where the two small bags he'd rescued from the trunk were waiting, neatly lined up against the plain pale gray wall.

"Bathroom's through there—clean towels are already out. Just let me know if there's anything else you need."

She nodded. Her face remained neutral as she sank to the edge of the bed and looked around the room, taking in the simple maple furniture, the framed Civil War battlefield maps, and his antique rolltop desk sitting in front of the window. He frowned. Maybe the window wasn't the best place for that desk. A chair—a comfortable one—might look better there.

Her gaze found his again. Odd. He'd always thought brown eyes were so difficult to read compared to lighter shades, but Karen's were completely open and readable. He could easily see there was a whole lot more to her simple, "Thanks," than what the word alone could convey.

And just like that, the easy camaraderie they'd been experiencing disappeared. In the ensuing silence they just stared at each other, both clearly at a loss. Both clearly thinking the same thing. That this was highly, monumentally, never-would-have-ever-envisioned-it-in-a-million-years _weird_. He was treating her like any other guest—never mind that he _never_ had guests, the guest room serving more as office than anything else. For her part, she was acting like the perfect guest, polite and making certain she wasn't overstepping any bounds. Oh, and never mind that this was the most time they'd spent alone in each other's company since… well, since Iris' birth.

And _that_ had been nothing more than a fluke. So if he was being completely accurate and honest, this was the most time they'd ever spent alone in each other's company… voluntarily.

Yeah. Weird.

"Carlton?"

"Yeah?"

She looked up at him, hands folded tight in her lap.

"If you have this room, then why'd you spend the night on the sofa?" Her brows drew together, her demeanor screaming the woman he knew so well as his boss, mind racing as she pieced together a puzzle. "I _am_ correct in assuming you did sleep on the sofa last night, right?"

Propping a shoulder against the doorjamb he thought about how to answer that. Then he remembered who he was talking to. At the first sign of anything less than total honesty she'd call bullshit and make him feel like something that needed to be scraped off the bottom of a shoe. She'd done it before and she'd do it again and hell's bells, he dealt with enough of that at work—he'd be damned if he'd feel that way in his own home.

"This room's on the opposite side of the house from the master." He stared down at his shoes, one foot crossed over the other. "I wouldn't have been able to hear if you needed anything—"

All of a sudden a pair of bare feet appeared in his line of vision. A split second later, blue plaid flannel tentatively crept around his midsection, advancing and retreating, as if uncertain, before completely encircling his waist. He looked down at her head, light against the dark gray of the long-sleeved polo he'd changed into while she'd slept.

She didn't say anything—he understood she wouldn't say anything for a long while because there was too damned much to say and most of it would be too hard to say—at least, for right now.

So she didn't have to say anything.

But he could. For once, he knew exactly what to say.

"You're welcome, Karen."


	4. Chapter 4

**Have Tomorrow**

Yep, here we go again, no claim on **psych**, they won't return my calls, so I have to assume they want to keep their claim on it. As such, no infringement intended, etc. etc., TPTB own everything, I got nuthin'.

Obviously, this is riding way off the canon rails (Loafer will be so proud!). I'm just going with it and seeing where it ends up.

* * *

><p>Wrapped in a towel, Karen wiped the steam from the mirror solely from force of habit, not because she was all that interested in her reflection. After all, what she'd find there wasn't any big mystery—forties, skin not quite as firm, muscles not quite as toned, eyes not quite as bright, and if her hair was still untouched by silver it was only because of the monthly salon visits and the one vanity she permitted herself. And that was on a good day. On a day like today? Forget it.<p>

But she'd be damned if she'd succumb to the self-pity. If she'd cry anymore. She'd cried so damned much over the last twenty-four hours she wasn't sure she could even spit on command.

_Time to get it together, Vick._

Vick.

For the first time since those long-ago newlywed days, giddily getting used to the sound of it, the name gave her pause. Should she go back to Dunlap? But Vick had been her name for so long—how she'd been recognized professionally for the bulk of her career. Not to mention, there was Iris to consider. If she was a little older, maybe it would be different but how weird would it be for her if her mother all of a sudden had a different name?

The incessant throbbing the hot shower had managed to wrestle back started up again as she gripped the edges of the sink. Blindly, she groped for the aspirin Carlton had so considerately transferred to this bathroom along with yet another clean glass.

And how in hell was she going to deal with _this_ situation? Why on earth had she agreed to stay here… with Carlton of all people? If there was anyone who'd hold something like this over her as a sign of weakness—

Except…

_No—he wouldn't._

Maybe once upon a time. Maybe even still, about almost anything else, but never, ever about this. Carlton Lassiter could be a class-A son of a bitch, more than a little self-involved, and God knows, tactless as hell, but he was rarely deliberately cruel and generally not without provocation. Not that any of that mattered. The fact remained it was entirely inappropriate for her to be staying in her head detective's home. No matter how innocent the original intent, if it ever got out that she was staying here—that she'd gotten drunk and been sick all over him—that she'd _hugged_ him—both of their careers would be, as Carlton would say, in the crapper. Seriously and permanently compromised if not ruined outright. It had been a lovely gesture, one for which she'd be forever grateful, especially this one lost day,but she needed to get out of here. Now.

After tossing back a pair of aspirin, she hurriedly towel-dried her hair and in the bedroom, quickly riffled through the contents of one of the suitcases, trying not to think of how bare and lonely it looked, along with its mate, silhouetted against the wall. That all she'd felt compelled to bring with her of her life amounted to two small suitcases.

_Oh, we're heading into the maudlin portion of our program, are we? You so sure you want to be alone in your own head? Really?_

Snarling at the snide internal voice, she threw on jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt and shoved her feet into a pair of flats. Hurriedly, she stuffed everything back in the bag and zipped it up before dragging it and its mate to the door.

Swinging it open, she swallowed a gasp. Carlton stood on the opposite side, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, although he didn't look in the least bit surprised.

"Wondered how long it would take you to try to make a break for it."

Was he _smiling_? That miserable, arrogant— "Then you understand that I have to leave."

He shook his head and moved past her into the room, somehow pulling off a miraculous sleight-of-hand where he slipped the bags from her grip and set them back against the wall.

"Not yet. Have some lunch first."

Crap. Did he have to sound so reasonable? And did that soup have to smell so good? Didn't mean she was that easy, however.

"Carlton—"

"Kar_en_," he mimicked with exaggerated patience, tempting her to smack him into next Thursday as her grandma would've said. Putting one hand to her back, he led her from the room, closing the door firmly behind them and when in hell had he gotten so damned insubordinate? She was his superior.

_Not here_. And something about the words and the immediacy with which they'd popped into her mind made her relax. Made her realize that she didn't have to make any decisions. Not yet. And she couldn't deny that that knowledge brought with it a certain measure of tranquility. A calm amidst the storm sensation.

"Look, in all seriousness, you haven't eaten anything of substance since the wings last night which honestly didn't stay with you all that long. You need to eat something before your stomach lining eats itself."

Brows drawn together, she stared up at him as he held a chair for her. "Okay, first off, nice visual."

He shrugged.

"And second, there were wings?"

"I rest my case." Placing a hand on her shoulder, he gently, but firmly urged her to sit.

"You're still not going to talk me out of this," she called after his retreating back to which he responded with a dismissive wave.

"Why would he want to talk me out of this?" she muttered to herself as she shook a napkin out over her lap. "Why does it matter?"

"I already gave you the answer to your second question."

She jumped at the sudden sound of his voice right beside her. "Jesus Christ, what are you, some kind of ninja?"

He snorted as he set bowls of soup on the table. "Please." This time she kept a close eye on him—no more of this sneaking up stuff, thank you—as he returned to the kitchen, collecting silverware, glasses of iced tea and a loaf of bread. Settling himself in the chair to her right he fixed her with a disturbingly penetrating gaze and repeated, "Seriously, do you want me to answer any or all of your questions?"

Luckily, he didn't seem to require an immediate response, as he bent his head and applied himself to tearing a hunk of bread from the loaf, which he offered her. For her part, she bought herself time by dipping the bread in the steaming soup and taking a tentative bite, mindful of her still-tender stomach.

Holy hell, the man could seriously cook. Yeah, talking could wait.

Finally, her spoon scraped against the bottom of the bowl, only crumbs were left of a second piece of bread and he'd refilled her tea. She spun the glass on the placemat, studying the dark rings the condensation left behind.

"Carlton, if anyone finds out I'm staying here, it could be bad."

"It could," he said so agreeably that her head snapped up, eyes narrowing as she tried to figure out what angle he was working now. He had to be working an angle, right?

"You think that didn't cross my mind the moment I asked you to stay here?" Those dark, sharply angled eyebrows that gave him such an annoyingly arrogant air rose as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes, most of the department saw us walk out together yesterday, but nothing past that. I made it a point to take us to a bar that was off the beaten path and trust me, no one either of us knows has any idea you wound up here. When I went to get your car, I made certain no one saw me and I parked it around back where no one's going to spot it and perhaps most importantly—" Carlton uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, propping his forearms on the table. She followed the direction of his gaze, watching as his thumb slowly swiped at the collected moisture on the side of his glass. "No one in their right mind would ever expect Karen Vick to be spending _any_ personal time—let alone personal vacation time—with Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective and well-known uptight, humorless jackass. Especially not in his home."

His blue gaze rose and met hers. "Trust me, you're safe."

The sudden surge of anger took her by surprise. She'd seen that thin-lipped smirk a thousand times. Knew it was meant to be self-deprecating—cut off the expected insult before it could be lobbed and find a target. Never before when she'd seen it, had she even given it a second thought, but this time, it pissed her off. A lot, actually. Before she could explore the unexpected emotion too deeply, however, he was speaking again.

"Look, Karen, you're an independent woman with a mind of your own and obviously, I can't stop you from leaving nor will I, despite what you might think, but I'm going to argue like hell against it." He shifted in his seat, his expression flickering, as if he desperately wanted to look away, but wouldn't—because it was _that_ important—although when he spoke, his normally confident voice was the softest she'd ever heard it. "You're one of the toughest people I've ever known, and I _know_ you can fight through this and come out standing, but I can also guarantee you're going to have some of the worst days of your life in the near future." She hadn't thought it possible, but his voice dropped even further as he added, "I just really hate the thought of you being alone. Especially when you don't have to be."

"Why?" Her voice was as soft as his, yet she could tell by the way he cocked his head that he heard the many questions contained within. The same way as back in the bedroom, he'd heard so much more than her simple 'thanks.'

She'd long-ago acknowledged that quiet defined Carlton Lassiter, but what she was also learning was that it also provided a convenient screen for a man who, when he stopped long enough to trust his own instincts, listened well and had the ability to discern nuance and subtext. Really, it was no wonder the sheer volume of Shawn Spencer's presence annoyed the living hell out of him. To him, Spencer had to sound like an orchestra of wildly out of tune instruments played by sugar-crazed five-year-olds.

All those thoughts streamed through her mind in rapid-fire succession, yet even so, the moment seemed to stretch forever. A moment in which the expressions on Carlton's face continued to shift, a profound uncertainty flashing behind those intense eyes, yet he ultimately held her gaze. And shrugged, trying again for self-deprecation and failing miserably.

"I told you, Karen—I like you."

She found herself suspended somewhere between laughing, crying, and blushing like a ten-year-old because Carlton Lassiter didn't like—or trust—easily and here he was, very simply and in a very Carlton manner, doing both.

That it was with _her_? As surreal as the last week had been—ever since her husband had announced he was unhappy, that he didn't think there was anything they could do that would make him happy, that what he really wanted was a divorce—_this_ had to be the pinnacle. Nothing else could possibly throw her now.

She propped her chin in her hand and sighed. "God, Carlton, I don't know how to deal with you when you're being so reasonable and… and… nice. It's like I don't even know you anymore."

A smile that was less smirk and more genuine, maybe even a little sad, crossed his face. "Did you ever really?"

"No, I didn't," she said, shaking her head slowly and thinking back on everything she'd learned in the last twenty-four hours. "I really and truly didn't. I'm so sorry."

"Why?" he responded shortly, more recognizably Carlton. "It's not like I've ever made it easy or even wanted it." He rose and began clearing the table.

"And I wonder why that is?" she murmured to his retreating back, although if he heard, he gave no indication. It was rhetorical anyway. She had a pretty good idea why. And again, that unfamiliar anger teased the edges of her consciousness, all heat and prickly sensation, leaving her with the undeniable urge to punch something, but she wasn't sure what—or who.

With another sigh, she pushed herself up, collecting what was left of the bread and folding up the placemats. In the kitchen, they worked together efficiently, putting the remainder of the soup away and loading the dishwasher with only a minimum of conversation exchanged. Back in the living room with fresh cups of coffee, he settled back into his chair while she wandered, too restless to sit, studying the books and the CDs, the small items placed at random intervals on the shelves that might reveal more of the enigma that was the private Lassiter, before winding up at the window, staring out into the uncharacteristic grayness of the spring day. According to the clock it was only just past two in the afternoon, but she was as wiped as if she'd put in a full double shift with no sleep, no coffee and Iris as a colicky infant. But she was determined to see this day through, fully conscious and _without_ liquor. To get back to normal—or at least, begin taking baby steps toward establishing a new normal.

Speaking of normal, though— she turned away from the window.

"It's Saturday."

"It is," he replied, his head bent over his book again.

"Um, well… don't you usually…" The question seemed so obvious, yet so, so… personal, so she couldn't quite figure out _how_ to ask. Even if she and even Carlton were way past personal at this point, because once you'd thrown up on a guy, that removed a lot of previous barriers, this was personal of a whole different beast.

"She's in solitary again."

"Again?" Karen crossed to the sofa and took the seat at the end nearest his chair. She propped her elbow on the arm and cupped her chin in her palm.

"It's her third… no, fourth, time in." With a sigh, Carlton marked his place with an index card and returned the book—Dennis Lehane, Karen noted with some surprise—to the stack. He leaned back in the chair and tilted his head to stare up at the ceiling. "I think she likes it," he said, scrubbing a hand over the top of his head. "It's the first time in her entire life that she's literally been completely alone and had time to herself. No expectations or obligations or demands."

"But it adds time to her sentence."

"Well, yeah, I think she kind of likes that, too." His hand dropped heavily to the arm of the chair. "I'm not sure she knows what she's going to do when she gets out, so she's buying time."

"She's got your relationship to look forward to."

His head lowered and his gaze met hers, brilliant blue and yet eminently unreadable. "Or it could just be another obligation," he said flatly, his meaning clear.

"She's an idiot if that's the case."

Carlton's eyes widened as she clapped a hand over her mouth. Okay, could this experience get any more bizarre? No matter what _she_ might think, the woman was still his girlfriend and considering the set of his mouth and the narrow-eyed stare he was hitting her with, someone he cared a great deal for.

Fabulous. The man had opened his home and been far kinder than she really deserved, and she was repaying him by being a prying, judgmental bitch. Great move.

"God, Carlton, I am so sorry. I have no busi—"

He lifted his hand and she stopped, her jaw closing with an audible snap. Surprisingly, his mouth relaxed into a half-smile. A little sad, a little resigned, but with a hint of smugness hovering about the edges. Two Carltons—the one she knew so well, who infuriated and challenged her on a regular basis, and the one she was only beginning to discover existed, the _nice_ guy —shifting and blurring together.

"She _would_ be foolish to not want to pursue a relationship with me."

Relieved, she slumped back into the sofa, a spontaneous and surprisingly genuine "Totally," slipping out before she could stop herself. On second thought—screw it. She was glad it had slipped out.

Rather than return her smile, however, a pair of familiar slashes appeared between his brow. "But it's not necessary for you to lie, Karen." And with those words and a smile that really wasn't, the Carlton she knew so well receded and the one she'd only just begun to know in the last twenty-four hours came to the forefront. Renewed anger prickled along her nerve endings, fierce and hot.

"When have you ever known me to lie to you?" she snapped.

Head cocked, he regarded her steadily, and not a little skeptically. Reassuring, since that was the Carlton she knew best. Whatever he said next would be completely honest.

"With the exception of Goochberg?"

Crossing her arms, she returned his stare with the direct, no BS one she'd perfected over her lengthy career. "That wasn't a lie so much as a strategic evasion. And it _worked_," she reiterated. No way was she letting him forget that little detail.

"Fair enough." His lips momentarily thinned into a straight line, then relaxed. "So, then, never."

"Damned straight." She nodded emphatically then leaned forward. "I promise, I'm not about to start now. Not after—"

Like he had so many times already, he saved her, his nod as she struggled for the words conveying he understood.

Suddenly exhausted from the unexpected avalanche of emotion, she slumped back into the cushions. Honestly, this had to be the most comfortable couch ever. She could just fall asleep again… but no. Had to stay awake. Establish normal, Karen. Whatever the hell form that would take.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe right now she could just take a nap.

Who knew? Maybe if she slept she could begin to figure things out. The subconscious was supposed to be good for that. God knows, she'd completely sucked at figuring things out—at even seeing them—while she was conscious.

"I don't get you." His voice sounded faint and distant, but with a reassuring resonance that brought her back to consciousness—at least long enough for her to open her eyes and focus on him hovering over her. It was important for him to see that she was fully aware of what she was saying.

"What's to get?" Her hands collided with his as they both reached for the blanket.

"I just—" He brushed her hands aside and drew the blanket up over her. "You're proving to be incredibly unexpected is all."

"Ditto." Blinking heavily, she managed to bring his wavering form into focus. "Oh, and Carlton?"

He looked down on her, his gaze a little bemused and very, very blue. "Yeah?"

She blindly groped for his hand—capturing it in hers, she gave it a small squeeze. "Just so you know—I like you, too."


	5. Chapter 5

**Have Tomorrow**

Nope, **psych** is still not mine, TPTB have everything, I've got nuthin', blah, blah, holiday cookies and eggnog.

* * *

><p>After a quiet Sunday with nothing more traumatizing than a few tears shed during a marathon viewing of <em>Band of Brothers<em>— over which Karen only teased him a little—Monday dawned and with it, a new work week. One in which Carlton would be taking charge, for the first time, as acting Chief, while Karen was on her "vacation."

"Are you going to rotate partners for O'Hara or just let her work solo?"

Carlton glanced up from looking over the notes he'd been jotting down at odd times during the weekend to find Karen shuffling into the kitchen, hair falling into her eyes and his robe thrown over the shorts and t-shirt in which she'd apparently slept. Following his gaze, she looked down. "I hope you don't mind," she said with only a little bit of pink coloring her cheeks. "It would appear a robe is one of the things I neglected to pack in my mad dash out of my house and it was a little chilly this morning."

"I don't mind." He lifted a shoulder as he took a sip of coffee and tried to banish the unexpected thought that his robe actually looked pretty damned good on her. Because that was a completely inappropriate thing to be thinking, dammit. Come on, she'd worn it on Saturday and nothing of the sort had occurred to him. Of course, she looked a hell of a sight better this morning than she had on Saturday—far better rested and maybe even a little relaxed, but the fact remained she was a) his boss b) a woman who, despite current appearances was dealing with an enormous emotional and life-changing trauma, c) still technically _married_, Lassiter, you schmuck and d) absolutely lovely—_oh, dear God, no, not supposed to think that_! Okay, rewind, erase, start over: D) his _boss_.

Shaking his head, he tightened his grip on his mug and tried to remember what she'd asked, because she'd asked a question, right? A legitimate one that had nothing to do with blue plaid flannel. Completely practical and pedestrian fabric.

Pedestrian. Walking a beat. Police work.

Partners. O'Hara. Right.

Right.

"Actually, since McNab still has aspirations of taking the Detective's Exam, I thought I'd let him go plainclothes and shadow O'Hara. Give him some practical experience. That way she has backup and I'm not messing with any of the established partnerships." He paused, then added in as neutral a tone as he could muster, "Unless you think that's a bad idea?"

She cocked her head as she stirred cream into her coffee. "No, I think it's a fine idea, really." She regarded him steadily over the rim of her mug. "Besides, you're in charge."

"By default," he muttered into his coffee as he took a sip, nearly spluttering as he felt her hand on his forearm.

"By choice." Her hand felt very warm through the thin cotton of his dress shirt. "It's within my jurisdiction to assign the person I feel is best qualified to oversee the department in my absence. I chose you. So shut up." Her hand fell away as she stepped around the island to take a seat on one of the stools.

"Duly noted." There really wasn't enough coffee for how odd this exchange was proving to be.

"You planning a speech to the troops?"

Once again he glanced up from his notes to meet her interested gaze. "Karen, technically, you're on vacation."

Her eyes widened as she straightened in the stool. "Of course. I'm sorry, Carlton." To his surprise, she blushed—a deep, almost violent red—as she looked down. "I don't mean to interfere or imply you don't have things under control," she murmured, her thumb rubbing the rim of her mug.

Dammit all to _hell_.

He sighed. "Not what I thought you meant." Almost of its own volition, his hand reached across the island and glanced against hers, making her look up. "The last thing you need to be worrying about is work. That's all." A half-smile tugged at his mouth. "But to answer your question, I am, but I'm afraid it's going to go over about as well as most of my group addresses tend to, so I'm trying to figure out exactly what to say."

"It's not usually what you say, Carlton, it's how."

"Yeah?" He checked his watch and decided he had time for another cup. After pouring a fresh measure into his mug and topping off Karen's, he leaned a hip against the counter's edge. "How so?"

"You tend to go in, both barrels blazing, with the full expectation that people are going to fuck up and you're going to have to clean up their messes."

"And—?" They generally did. Especially if Spencer was involved. No matter how many cases the _psychic_ helped them solve, there was usually a giant mess to clean up as well and usually he was the one left holding the broom and dustpan. He was Head Detective, the buck stopped with him and he was good with that, so long as others pulled their own weight.

"Self-fulfilling prophecy, Detective," she responded sharply with an exasperated shake of her head. "We've got good people working for us, Carlton," she said in a gentler tone. "Let them know you trust in their abilities and leave them to do their work without them feeling like you're breathing down their necks, just waiting for them to screw up. You'll find that they'll put forth their best efforts." After a beat and with a knowing lift to her eyebrows, she added, "You certainly do."

Well, hell—he'd walked right into that one, hadn't he?

"Touché." With a rueful smile, he lifted his mug in toast, his grin growing broader at how she smirked in response. He never realized what a smartass lay hidden behind his boss' proper exterior. Draining his coffee in two long swallows, he left his mug in the sink, rounded the island, and retrieved his suit jacket from where it was draped over the back of one of the stools. After slipping the notes into a manila folder, he reached into the bowl where he kept his keys. Separating out a ring of keys, he slid them toward Karen. "Your keys and oh—" He reached back into the bowl and drew out another ring, this one bearing only a single key, and set it alongside her keys. "Key to the house."

Casual. Matter-of-fact. No big deal, really. Never mind that he'd been awake since four-thirty worried about his first day in charge and worried more that the minute he was gone, she would be too. There was nothing to hold her there after all. She'd needed this weekend and the escape it had provided, but now that it was done—

It was what it was. He'd meant what he said—he wouldn't stop her. But he'd worry. Kind of pissed him off, actually. Why he was so worried, aside from he'd been where she was and it had _sucked_, was a mystery. The unknown and him—it was a dysfunctional relationship at best. Crappy as a general rule. So no, he wasn't all that thrilled that Unknown was knocking on his door and being a taunty little son of a bitch.

He took a deep breath and grabbed his keys, pausing when an unfamiliar key clattered against the counter's granite surface. Glancing up, he met Karen's clear brown gaze.

"Key to my office."

His brows drew together as he stared at the small brass key, making no move to pick it up. "That's not necessary, Karen."

"You're acting Chief." She grinned, a completely unfamiliar, impish grin that made her eyes light up. "You'll need somewhere to hide when Shawn Spencer comes around."

He snorted. "You really think a door'll stop him?"

One shoulder lifted. "It gives you more time to draw your weapon."

"Good point." He added the key to his ring and headed toward the door.

Her soft voice followed him. "I'll see you tonight."

Hand on the doorknob, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. Karen remained seated at the island, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other deliberately placing the ring with her keys back in the bowl, acknowledging the question that had plagued him since four-thirty in the morning with her frank gaze.

Too-casually brushing her bangs out of her eyes she said, "Thought maybe I'd try cooking something that didn't start out in a box. Any suggestions?"

_You were right, Carlton. I'm not ready to be in my own head for too long._

"A beef or lamb stew is usually pretty foolproof. Cookbooks are in the cabinet to the right of the stove. Try not to blow anything up."

_I know, Karen. Hang in there._

With a final nod and a wave, he closed the door behind himself. Undeniably relieved. And a lot more willing to allow Unknown a free ride.

For now.

* * *

><p>"All right, people, let's get to it."<p>

Carlton didn't miss the shocked—not to mention relieved—expressions on the collective faces of the department personnel as he dismissed them after his short and no-doubt unexpectedly low-key briefing. The most surprised expression belonging, perhaps, to his own partner.

"Wow."

"I know, O'Hara—no need to rub it in." He collected a few personal things from his desk to take into Karen's office and locked the rest away in the bottom drawer. "McNab," he called to the young officer as he passed by. "No more than forty-five minutes to get your ass into plainclothes, you got that?"

"Aye, aye, Boss." With a jaunty salute, McNab continued down the hallway to the exit, all but skipping, which should have looked ridiculous on someone who was six-five, but despite himself, Carlton couldn't help but think it looked sort of endearing. Although if McNab tried to hug him again, he _would_ draw his weapon.

Gesturing to O'Hara that she should follow, he entered Karen's—_Chief Vick's_—office, trying to shake off a sense of not belonging that he hadn't expected. He'd wanted this for so long and now, at least for two weeks, it was his. Yet it felt so damned wrong. Maybe it was because he knew it was temporary.

_Liar._

Son of a _bitch_. Blasted conscience. Didn't have a damned thing to do with temporary so much as the circumstances that had led to it. If he was going to be in this office, he wanted it to be because he'd earned it.

_Liar._

Dammit. Okay, yes, he _had_ earned it. Karen had reassured him of that while also pointing out the ways in which she expected he could screw up—both of which he respected. But truth was, he didn't want to be here—not this way.

"I hope Chief Vick doesn't blow a gasket when she finds out you appropriated her office."

He rounded the desk and dropped his stuff on the table beneath the window, before turning to face O'Hara who'd taken a seat into the chair she usually sat in when they visited the Chief's office. Normally, however, he was seated or standing alongside. It felt strange facing her across the expanse of this particular desk.

"She left me the key," he replied mildly enough that it prompted an apologetic grimace from O'Hara.

"I'm sorry. I just assumed you got it from Operations—"

"Are you going to be all right with McNab shadowing you?" he asked, cutting her off. Because he really didn't want her asking any further questions about when Karen—Chief Vick, he reprimanded himself, _again_—might have given him the key.

"Yeah, it'll be fine once I get him off Cloud Nine," she said with a typically kind O'Hara smile.

"Just make sure you don't get too used to having him as your partner." He shuffled through the paperwork Karen—_Chief Vick, dammit_—had left for him on the desk, with duty assignments and rotations and their most outstanding cases.

"You're not looking forward to your break from the field, Carlton?" Juliet asked with genuine concern.

With a sigh, he stripped off his jacket and after draping it on the coat rack, dropped heavily into the chair. "Not really," he replied frankly, because no matter what, O'Hara was his partner and his friend and he wasn't in the habit of lying to her.

"Once upon a time this is exactly what you wanted," she pointed out with typical directness. "Wanted to be the youngest chief in the history of the department the same way you'd been the youngest Head Detective. And when it seemed like the chief's interim status wasn't going to be made permanent, you were pretty disappointed that you weren't considered."

"That was then."

Ignoring her thoughtful, "Hm," he instead concentrated on rolling up his shirt sleeves just so.

"By the way, did you ever find out why Chief Vick was so upset the other day?"

Dammit. _Now_, he was going to have to lie to his partner. Because for the first time in a long time, his first loyalty lay with someone else.

_Strategic evasion._

He allowed himself a tiny grin as he heard Karen's voice in his head and this time, he didn't bother correcting himself, because in that moment, she'd been Karen—not Chief Vick.

"She didn't feel well and was more than a little stressed." He lifted an eyebrow. "Spencer's stunt didn't exactly serve to reassure her that things would run smoothly in her absence."

Her eyes shut briefly in resignation. "I know." Opening them, she fixed her frank gaze on him. "But the way you handled it helped, I'm sure."

For a brief, panicked moment Carlton was sure Juliet somehow _knew_. Knew exactly what had prompted their boss's breakdown and worse still, Carlton's role in helping her over the weekend. But in the next moment, he relaxed. There was no way she could possibly know, for all the reasons he'd outlined to Karen—_Chief Vick_, he amended with an internal sigh—but even if she somehow found out, O'Hara was the only person he would ever trust with the knowledge.

"Thanks." He acknowledged her compliment with a nod, earning him another surprised glance. Not unwarranted, he supposed, given that normally, he'd be extolling his own virtues—in detail, no less—but in this case, the less said, the better. "Let McNab use my desk while he shadows you."

With that, he settled into discussing the upcoming day with O'Hara, seeing no real need to change that aspect of his daily routine simply because he was in charge, especially since now, she was de facto Head Detective and along with Henry Spencer, would be Chief Fake Psychic Wrangler. Among the various topics they covered, he made it abundantly clear she was to keep Spencer from barging into the office uninvited under the very real threat of debilitating injury. They both knew it would still happen, but she reassured him she'd do her best.

Luckily, Spencer's services were only required for one case during the week—a group of phony gypsies who were grifting down by the beach. They'd swindled several tourists and even locals who should've known better for crap's sake, before Spencer got a handle on their shtick and O'Hara and McNab discovered some damning evidence that led to a satisfying arrest.

"But Spencer managed to drive even McNab up a tree with his stunts," he relayed to Karen over dinner on Thursday night after the case had wrapped. "Poor guy was in the office begging me for tips on how to handle Spencer after he started calling Buzz 'Lightyear' at the scene and bellowing 'To infinity—and beyond!' every time they headed off to track down new information."

Karen grinned over the rim of her wine glass. "What did you tell him?"

"To shoot him," Carlton replied shortly. He resisted the urge to stab his steak repeatedly—a good strip never deserved that sort of treatment.

"Carlton," she admonished although a healthy vein of laughter clearly underscored her tone and lightened it in a way that had him shifting in his seat and reaching for his glass.

_So_ not good. But so long as he acknowledged it—okay, yes, Karen Vick was a smart, funny, damned attractive woman—he could keep it wrestled into submission.

But then she'd laugh or turn suddenly with that half-smile or the lamplight would hit her hair in a way that made it look like warm honey or, you know, _breathe_, and there he'd be, reaching for his wine glass and draining it in one swallow.

Because he was a _schmuck_.

"Has the week been that bad?"

"Actually, no." Deep breaths. "It's gone remarkably smoothly, all things considered."

"I told you it would."

Despite his reminding her—more than once—that she was on vacation she couldn't seem to resist asking him about his day, claiming as a defense that once a cop always a cop—as well as quietly admitting that if he distracted her with talk of work, it kept her from getting trapped in an internal self-pitying loop, full of recriminations and what ifs and blame. Since he was all too familiar with that damned loop, he humored her, talking about his day, asking for her opinion, and shamelessly picking her brain. Anything to keep her talking and out of her own head.

Selfishly, too, he understood _he_ liked it. Too damned much, as a matter of fact.

It'd been a long time since he'd come home to anyone. And he'd _never_ come home to anyone who not only understood his job, but shared his passion for it. Who didn't make him feel like a freak because talking about it helped him unwind. Who understood that just because the clock hit five, it didn't mean that part of himself automatically shut down.

Ironically, he learned that being given tacit understanding and the freedom to talk about the job allowed him to get it out of his system that much faster. With Victoria, the end of a work day had typically brought endless frustration as he would try to talk to her about it, trying to get her to acknowledge the importance of his work and growing progressively angrier when she'd flatly ask him to shut up—that she didn't want to hear about robberies and murders over dinner, especially dinner with their friends, for God's _sake_, Carlton. No one wanted to hear about that.

By contrast, he and Karen had fallen into the habit of discussing his day and the cases that had crossed his desk over a drink and dinner and by the time they were on to dessert, they were done, content to talk about any and everything else.

If nothing else, he'd be forever grateful to Karen for having given him the gift of that knowledge even if she remained completely unaware of it.

He also understood that it was horribly, monumentally, mother of all bad ideas to get used to it because it wasn't real. It was just the Universe being a bastard and screwing around with him—_again_—giving him a glimpse of the sort of thing that could never be his.

"Carlton?"

He glanced up at the odd note in her voice. "Yeah?"

The stem of her wineglass between her fingers, she spun it gently back and forth, her gaze fixed on the wall where the light refracting off the wine's surface threw ruby-shaded patterns.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

Steak and salad and potatoes suddenly congealed into one huge lump in his stomach.

"Okay," he said carefully, pushing his plate off to the side and refilling his wine glass.

Without meeting his gaze, she softly added. "Just for the weekend, though. If it's okay."

The contents of his stomach swooped, as if he was riding a roller coaster. He freakin' hated roller coasters.

"Of course it's okay," he replied neutrally, although neutral was the last blasted thing he felt.

Finally she met his gaze. "As far as Iris knows, I've been at a work-related seminar in L.A. this week." She chewed her lower lip. "I went by our—" she caught her breath and smoothly corrected herself, "_my_ house today and it's clear my ex hasn't been by yet."

Carlton hadn't missed how there had only been the slightest of hesitations on the word "ex" nor did he miss the clear note of annoyance in her voice.

She took an impatient sip of wine. "He knew damned well I was taking a two week leave of absence and that I wanted him to do what he needed to do as soon as possible so we could talk to Iris this weekend and I could spend next week with her. But I haven't been able to reach him and I'll be damned if I take us back home and let him ambush me without warning." Her glass hit the table with an emphatic crack. Thankfully, it was fairly sturdy crystal.

"So what are you going to do then?" Other than leave, he silently added but resisted saying out loud because seriously—that would just be pathetic.

"I'm going to spend the weekend with Iris at my parents' and then, since it's her spring break, they're taking her to Disneyland for a couple of days and then up to Mammoth to visit with some cousins. One of them works at the resort and she's going to go skiing with his kids."

A lone tear spilled over and tracked down her cheek, propelling him out of his chair before he could stop himself. Hell, she hadn't cried, at least openly, in days. Dropping to a knee beside her chair he started to reach for her napkin then stopped—hand momentarily frozen before it began moving again, almost of its own volition. Hesitantly, in case she drew back or made a move to punch him, he gently brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheek, once, twice… before dropping his hand to her shoulder, trying not notice how warm her skin had been and how her eyes weren't so much a true brown as they were hazel, hints of green and gold scattered through dark amber.

_Schmuck._

"What is it?"

"It's going to be her first time skiing," she admitted looking past him and into the distance. "It's one of my favorite things to do and I always thought I'd be the one—"

"Shh…" His hand rose again to wipe away another tear that had escaped. "You'll be there for the next time." He hesitated, then forged ahead, sensing it would be important for her to hear this. "And you're going to be the one who's there for her for a lot of other firsts, Karen."

One final tear escaped with her long, drawn-out sigh—a tear she allowed him to wipe away, even as her clear gaze rose to meet his. Slowly, his hand dropped away from her face and came to rest on his upraised knee, the dampness from her tear cooling on his skin and leaving him uncomfortably aware.

"Anyhow, I thought after the weekend I'd… come back? I'm better, but not… great. My parents want me to go with them and Iris, and it's tempting because I miss my baby so damned much, but I'm still so _angry_, Carlton. I'm afraid I'll slip and say something and I can't do that to her—" She was staring down at her hands, twisting together in her lap, so he knew she couldn't see the look of relief he was absolutely certain was scrolling across his face like the damned New York Stock Exchange even as he silently acknowledged this was going to be bad—at least for him.

Because the Universe was teaming up with Hope to seriously screw with his mind.

Rising, he gently squeezed her shoulder before resuming his seat.

"Let me know if you need anything?"

Her head lifted and she stared at him so long and so hard he began to worry he'd inadvertently said something wrong. Finally, an odd expression crossed her face, one that, if he had to guess, was equal parts determination and hesitance, and her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath.

"I will."

Well into the night, he couldn't shake the feeling there'd been something else—something that lay just beyond those two words, but no matter how many ways he turned them over, whatever was there was eluding him, hovering just beyond his comprehension.

And cue Unknown—horning back in on the act with the Universe and Hope to drive him batshit insane.

* * *

><p>The next day he stayed as late as possible at the station, reluctant to go home because hell, what was there now? Only the collective of O'Hara, Spencer, and Guster, dragging him out for dinner, mostly because he was being the kind of irascible bastard everyone had expected at the week's outset, got him out of the office at all.<p>

O'Hara knew something was up, assumed it was about Marlowe—whom he'd barely thought of, he realized, which made him even surlier—and when it was clear he wasn't going to say squat, got frustrated and told him whatever the hell it was, to get it out of his system before Monday or else she herself would lead the revolt.

Then, God love her, she let him get drunk without pulling any kind of judgment, just reassurances that both he and his car would get home safely and no, she would _not_ let Shawn drive his car.

But even a fairly respectable drunk couldn't mask the emptiness he felt as he stumbled through his front door. Amazing how easy it had been to get used to having another body around.

No.

Amazing how easy it had been to get used to having _Karen_ around.

Tossing his jacket to the chair, he dropped to the sofa and leaned his head against the back with a tired sigh. Who the hell would have expected it? Not him, that was for damned sure.

What had started out as helping out a colleague and someone he wasn't even sure was a friend had turned into—

_Don't go there, Lassiter. Just… don't._

No. Better not to go there.

Didn't stop him from dragging his sorry ass off the sofa and going to stand on the threshold to her room, sniffing the damned air like a forlorn puppy, trying to catch a hint of the jasmine and vanilla fragrance she wore. Staring at the suddenly bland surroundings with a critical eye.

Inspired and with it, instantly sober, he rolled his sleeves up and got to work.


	6. Chapter 6

**Have Tomorrow**

Nope, **psych** is still not mine, TPTB have everything, I've got nuthin', no infringement intended, you know the rest.

Well, I wasn't sure this was going to happen, but it would appear this chapter is headed into **M** territory. Be ye forewarned.

* * *

><p>Karen stood on the threshold to Carlton's guest room and stared.<p>

Looked away, looked back in, and yep—still the same.

She was half tempted to walk back out, through the living room and out the front door, double checking to make sure she was in the same place never mind that her key had turned easily in the lock and everything else looked the same, because, really—

Behind her, she heard the faint sounds of the front door unlocking accompanied by the rustling sounds of paper bags being juggled and a muffled curse.

Okay, so she was definitely in the right place. Reassuring.

Turning, she stalked down the hall and into the main living area of the condo where she found him, as expected, wrestling several grocery bags onto the island's surface.

"What the hell did you _do_?"

"Jesus Christ!"

Their hands collided as they both lunged for the bag that had slipped from the edge of the island, with only a last second maneuver on his part keeping their heads from slamming together.

"You're home."

"I am." In the back of her mind she registered his use of the term "home" and her easy agreement. Yet as quickly as the warm and _so right_ feeling of it enveloped her, she shoved it aside as a mere slip. It was _his_ home, after all.

"You're earlier than I expected."

She studied his face, looking for any signs that he was irritated or otherwise feeling inconvenienced. Nothing there other than concern and unless she was imagining things, a quiet pleasure. "Iris was excited to get to Disney."

"So she still has no idea?"

She swallowed a shaky breath as she shook her head, still staring at him. This close, she could see clear evidence of what she'd discovered in the bedroom.

"That's good." His hands shifted against hers, making her realize that they were still standing what should have been uncomfortably close, their hands cupped together beneath the paper bag. "I guess."

"It is. It's delaying the inevitable, but I'm so glad she's having this time where she's just completely happy and doesn't have a care in the world. Maybe it'll soften the blow. Or maybe she'll just hate me that much more." With a sigh she slid her hands free, immediately missing the warmth and steady strength of his hands supporting hers.

"Karen, would you stop trying to take the full blame?" Sliding the the bag safely onto the island, he reached into it and pulled out boxes of pasta that he handed to her. Automatically turning to the pantry, she stacked them in their designated places. "There are two of you involved here."

"But it's me she's going to be living with. Daddy will show up every two weeks and take her for a weekend where he'll shower her with gifts and adventures while I'll be the hardass making her clean her room and do math homework. And because of that, the blame will eventually fall on me. It'll be all my fault, because Daddy's fun and I'm a raging bitch, so clearly I drove him off."

"Shut up," he said in such a reasonable tone, the actual words took several seconds to register. But before the impulse to deck him could coalesce into a fully realized action, he was speaking again. "That has the sound of someone—maybe your mother—trying to quote/unquote _reason_ with you and figure out what you did wrong."

A reluctant grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. "How'd you guess?"

His eyebrows rose as he handed her a bag of flour. "My boss has told me on occasion I'm actually a pretty good detective."

Her grin grew a tiny bit broader as she refilled the canister. "She—" She raised questioning eyebrows in Carlton's direction to which he responded with a grave nod though his eyes held considerable humor. "She sounds very smart."

"She is," he agreed as he handed her a rubber band with which to secure the open bag.

As she wound the rubber band around the bag she said, "Mom was driving me so bananas, I was more than willing to let them leave early, even though I hated cutting my time with Iris short." After storing the remainder of the flour in the pantry, she closed the door and leaned against it. "So, how'd you figure it out, Detective?"

"Given how close you and I are in age, I have to assume our mothers are as well. Which would make them both of a certain generation where, no matter what, the woman's always at fault. When Mother finally found out about our separation, she quizzed me incessantly about what Victoria had done to drive me away. She refused to believe or acknowledge I could have had any part in it."

Made sense. However… Karen thought back to the Carlton of six years earlier and crossed her arms as she captured his gaze with a challenging stare of her own. Sure enough, the tips of his ears slowly turned red, a matching wash of color rising from the open collar of his pale blue polo.

"Okay, yeah," he admitted. "I didn't exactly go out of my way to disabuse her of the notion that it was all Victoria's fault. Hell," he muttered, suddenly busy searching through one of the bags, "it's the only time my mother ever took my side on anything."

Biting her lip, she studied the dark, bent head, seeing in the vulnerable curve of his neck the lonely boy he'd once been, in spite of the silver generously peppering his hair. "I once overheard Spencer telling Henry that your separation lasted more than two years before your divorce became final. And that you went through any number of measures to try to save your marriage."

He lifted his head and nodded, his eyes a dark blue-gray and giving nothing further away. Okay, then, clearly more than a little off-limits. Yet the tacit acknowledgment contained within his curt nod suddenly made what he'd done make a lot more sense and at the same time, not.

"Carlton, the bedroom—"

His eyes narrowed and he frowned. "Do you not like it?"

"Of course I like it, you dolt." An exasperated sigh escaped before she could help herself, which prompted a renewed blush to streak across his prominent cheekbones and caused him to duck into the refrigerator under the guise of putting vegetables away. Dammit, the knowledge that he was actually fairly sensitive and self-conscious, _especially_ about things like this, was still so new, it tended to escape her. More gently she added, "Actually, I love it. But what on earth possessed you to do such a radical thing?"

He mumbled something into the depths of the crisper, prompting her to step closer to him. "Carlton."

His back expanded with a deep breath an instant before he straightened and turned and God, he was so _tall_. Especially when she was standing so close to him.

"I said it was _boring_. Cold. Nondescript. _Dull_." He crossed his arms and stared down at her, his brows drawn together in a familiar, peevish frown. "Half reminded me of the rooms at that high end loony bin Spencer went undercover at. And where we should've left him," he added as a muttered afterthought.

_Pfft_. As if that frown could intimidate her. Never had before and now, after a week of living in such close quarters? Forget it, bucko. Jutting her chin forward, she rose up into his face and jabbing a finger into his chest railed, "So after an unexpected weekend babysitting me and what had to be an exhausting work week you spent your free time doing—" Grabbing his arm, she spun on her heel and retraced her steps to her room and dammit, she wasn't even going to bother correcting that mental slip now because—

"Doing _this_?"

Once again, she stood on the threshold and took in the completely new room. The furniture was the same, sure, but the walls had gone from their former pale and yes, dull, gray to a rich sage green against which the maple furniture practically glowed, and while Civil War battlefield maps still adorned the walls, they were now grouped together on the same wall to which the rolltop desk had been moved. New artwork adorned the other walls—vintage posters depicting California travel destinations, including Mammoth Mountain, in vibrant colors that contrasted with a pair of striking black and white scenic photographs: a sweeping coastal landscape and another of the redwoods, ancient and peaceful and serene. That one hung in the place of honor above the headboard, as if to oversee and protect the room and its occupants. And by the window there was now a new overstuffed chair upholstered in a dark blue chenille with an afghan in shades of green and blue and purple thrown across it that screamed cozy and daydreams.

Karen had never in her life been one to just sit and daydream—there had always been too much to see and do, and an older sister to keep up with, then later, a career to pursue and a marriage to sustain and a child to raise, to allow time for anything so frivolous as daydreams—yet that had been her first thought on seeing the room. That is, first thought after the one she'd had where she was going to kill him for doing all this work.

"Yeah, I spent the weekend doing this. What of it?" The words were typically brash and aggressive Carlton, but the tone in which they emerged so tentative and downright shy that all thoughts of justifiable homicide evaporated on another sigh. It was his home and his time and if this was what he'd chosen to do with it, then she certainly was in no place to criticize. But that he'd done it for her? And she knew he had—otherwise, why would he be so concerned that she like it?

"It's beautiful. Thank you." She turned and stared up at him, noticing again the tiny flecks of paint that still dotted his hair and skin though the clean smell of soap and sandalwood clung to him.

Visibly relaxed now, he grinned and scrubbed a hand over his hair, sending the neatly combed strands into the disarray she'd become accustomed to seeing in the mornings—and that honestly, she preferred. "Yeah, I know I'm a mess—I cleaned up in a hurry because I wanted to hit the store before you got back. Don't worry, another shower should render me respectable enough for work tomorrow. I won't shame the office of Chief of Police."

Unbidden, a vivid image of Carlton standing with his head tilted back beneath a steady stream of water, sprang up in her mind's eye, hair slicked back and droplets of water beading along his lashes before traveling down his face and along the long column of his throat. And before that traitorous eye could drift _any_ further downward than the line of his shoulders and that alluring shadow at the base of his neck so often revealed by the single undone button of his dress shirts, she snapped herself out of it with a sharp head shake. Yeah, it'd been a while. More than a while, really–which should have been a _huge_ clue that something was seriously wrong with her marriage. The fact that she hadn't even realized months had gone by without anything more titillating than a goodnight kiss when once upon a time they couldn't keep their hands off each other?

_Danger, Will Robinson, danger!_

However, that was no excuse for entertaining lurid thoughts about a co-worker and friend—no matter how attractive she was beginning to realize he really was.

"Smartass," she said, trying to shake off the unexpectedly intense feelings.

"Takes one to know one," he retorted without missing a beat.

"God, Carlton, what am I supposed to do with you?" she muttered as much as a warning to herself as question to Carlton, who gazed down at her with a mildly bemused expression reflected in his eyes.

"Help me finish putting groceries away and figure out what to make for dinner?"

Perfectly sensible response.

Never mind that no matter how hard she scolded herself, what she really wanted to do with him was hug him. To start with. She stood there, swaying toward him, close enough to feel his body heat, arguing with herself that she'd hugged him before without incident and arguing back that last time she'd hugged him, it hadn't been in the wake of thoughts worthy of the novels Barb kept stashed on her e-reader and thought no one knew about.

Suppressing a sigh, she settled for patting his chest gently.

"Can a girl get a drink somewhere in there as well?"

Beneath her hand, his chest rose and fell and his heartbeat sped up, just enough to provoke an instinctive intake of breath from her.

"How about a martini?" His voice sounded very low, very close, and drew goosebumps to the surface of her skin.

Her hand didn't so much as fall from his chest as it drifted, maintaining contact as long as was respectable.

_Nothing respectable about what you're thinking, Vick._

"Shaken, not stirred?" Looky there—her voice actually came out steady.

Thankfully, even though that bemused look remained in his eyes, he seemed willing to follow her lead. "In the mood for some James Bond tonight, are we?"

"I'm never not in the mood for Bond."

"Come on, Karen—you have to give Eastwood a fighting chance."

"And I told you I have—_Bridges of Madison County_."

"Girly flick," he scoffed in typical dismissive Carton fashion.

"That _he_ directed," she pointed out.

"Which Bond do you want to watch again?" he said on a pained sigh, clearly willing to concede to Bond if it meant he wouldn't get stuck watching the _girly_ flick.

With a triumphant laugh, she reached into one of the cabinets and pulled down the shaker and martini glasses while he retrieved the ice and vodka from the freezer. "How about _The Living Daylights_ or _Licence to Kill_?"

"And she goes for Dalton, arguably the least popular Bond."

"But the one truest to Fleming's vision." Serious, a little uptight, a little burnt out, and defying authority in order to do the right thing, damn the consequences. Nope, wouldn't be dwelling on that at _all_.

"_Living Daylights_ it is, then." He unscrewed the cap on the Grey Goose. "So what about dinner?"

Setting the jar of olives within easy reach, she leaned against the counter and watched him measure liquor with a critical eye. "Why don't we just order pizza?"

The edges of his mouth quirked as one eyebrow rose. "Pizza and martinis?"

"What can I say, I'm a classy girl," she drawled, prompting a rare, full out laugh from Carlton.

Holding the cap over the shaker, he met her gaze. "I'm glad you're back."

She hadn't missed the almost infinitesimal pause before the last word. She knew he'd almost slipped and said "home," because she'd been thinking it herself.

This couldn't last. It was a fantasy, a moment out of time. But that knowledge still wasn't enough to stop her from replying, "It's good to be back," with the same miniscule pause—hoping he understood she was saying the same thing.

* * *

><p>"I'm glad you're having fun, baby. You keep being good for Grandma and Grandpa, okay? Yeah, I know it's going to be a long car ride, but you're going to have a blast once you get there. I'll want to hear all about it, okay? Love you more than anything. I do. I swear. Bye."<p>

Setting the phone on the armrest, Karen pulled the afghan higher up around her shoulders and settled more comfortably into _her_ chair. She wouldn't cry, dammit. She _wouldn't_. Iris was having a wonderful time, having just spent two full days at the World's Happiest Place. Tomorrow she'd be on her way to experience snow for the first time and she'd remain blissfully unaware that her mother had seriously considered killing her beloved Daddy. Not to mention, entertained a few thoughts of maiming Grandma, after the woman had asked, _again_, if she was making _any _effort at all to work things out… for Iris' benefit, of course, because her own happiness didn't matter worth a damn.

At least she'd _finally_ heard from him yesterday, in the form of a mildly accusatory phone call, wondering, but obviously not really, if she was still away, clearly surprised that she wasn't curled up at home in the dark, licking her wounds or rending her clothing.

She'd outright lied and told him she was out of town, innocently, but not really, asking if he'd gone by the house, yet.

He'd lied and said yes, of course he had and would she please let him know when she'd be back in town so they could talk to Iris together.

But no, no entreaties to get back together or that he was rethinking a decision made in haste. Why he hadn't retrieved his things yet was a mystery, but a desire to use it as an excuse to get back together was definitely not it.

_No, Mom—not working things out because he's made it clear he's not interested. _

So damned many lies. She rubbed her forehead wearily. How many more had there been of which she'd been thoroughly unaware? Restless, she stood, the afghan wrapped more fully around her shoulders as she leaned her cheek against the cool window and stared out into the clear night sky. She loved that this window faced west—fewer city lights to compete with the stars. This late, with many of those lights extinguished, the stars shone even brighter and if she opened the window, she could almost imagine hearing the rush of waves washing up along the shore the way they had the night before when she and Carlton had gone for a long walk along the beach.

As if sensing the residual irritability from that conversation with her ex, he'd suggested getting out, worried that the walls of the condo might be closing in on her. God, had she ever wanted to get out—so much so that even her earlier concerns over their being spotted together hadn't seemed that big a deal. After all, who really gave a shit, right?

Clearly, though, he'd kept it in mind. Night had already fallen when he'd driven them to a lovely, unfamiliar stretch of beach just outside the city. There, they'd walked, the quiet between them comfortable, content to allow the waves and the occasional distant wail of a foghorn to provide background. When the breeze had kicked up, he'd silently draped his jacket over her shoulders, but otherwise, had kept to himself, seemingly as lost in his thoughts as she'd been in hers.

The calm the walk had brought had unfortunately not extended into the late night hours where she'd tossed and turned, a myriad of thoughts colliding and tumbling over one another. There were her growing suspicions about her ex butting up against the unexpected attraction for Carlton; there was the deep-seated fear that the attraction was nothing more than misplaced gratitude and a sense of rebound, both of which would be tremendously unfair to both of them. An even more misplaced anger directed at Carlton because if he hadn't been so nice and understanding and tall and just as wounded, with blue eyes that reflected a lifetime's worth of hurt that gave her idle thoughts of murderous rampages, this would _never_ have happened.

She'd woken up, loaded for bear, only to discover him already gone, cursing herself for forgetting that he was attending the monthly Tuesday morning civic leader breakfast in her stead. They'd even laughed about it, with her giving him the rundown about who to expect the most bitching from and who to avoid at all costs, and him grousing about having to play nice with political idiots. The price of leadership, she'd pointed out, to which he'd responded by saying this was why she was the better chief than he'd ever be.

A compliment she'd treasure.

Her hands twisted in the afghan as she stared out into the night. Now he was late. Extremely late with no word and for the first time, she found herself on the other side of what it was like to wait for a cop. Didn't matter that she was well aware of all the reasons he might be so late—maybe it was worse because she _did_ know. Didn't have to imagine. But she had no claim on him—no reason to text or call—no reason to expect the same.

A sudden, loud commotion at the front door had her dropping the afghan, running into the living area, and coming face-to-face with, if not her worst nightmare, then pretty damned close.

"Chief _Vick_?"

Heart in her throat, she barely heard O'Hara's shocked exclamation, her entire attention focused on the bloody figure staggering into the kitchen.

"Oh my God, Carlton—"

"Dammit, O'Hara, you didn't have to follow me up. I told you I was fine," he growled as he yanked the Jack Daniels from the top of the fridge and poured a healthy measure into a glass.

Despite the fact that she was in a t-shirt, shorts, and barefoot, Karen's natural authority asserted itself as she barked, "Zip it, Detective—you're clearly not fine." Following him into the kitchen she called back over her shoulder, "O'Hara, what the hell happened?"

She had to give the younger woman credit—a thousand questions scrolled across her face as her narrow-eyed gaze darted between her partner and her boss, but rather than waste time with any of them, she merely provided the answers that Karen desperately needed as she approached Carlton, trying to assess the damage.

"Kid saw a gang hit in an alley behind the restaurant he works at earlier today. Los Tigres."

A notorious and extremely nasty gang. Drugs, weapons, human trafficking, pretty much anything illegal and morally reprehensible one could imagine. Carlton had been looking for ways to nail them for years but they were smart and elusive. For a kid to have witnessed a hit in broad daylight meant that it was either a crime of passion or someone had gotten sloppy. That the kid had been willing to come forward at all must have seemed like Christmas, Easter, and the Fourth of July all wrapped up with a bow.

O'Hara continued, "We were setting up a protective detail at his house when we were ambushed with a drive-by. McNab and I gave pursuit along with a patrol unit—got lucky and caught up with them. They gave us a pretty good fight, but eventually we got them subdued and in custody."

Somewhat shamefully, Karen noticed for the first time that O'Hara also sported a few bruises, although the blood streaking her blouse appeared to be superficial, rather than her own. Carlton, on the other hand—the tear in his shirt sleeve revealed a pretty good gash that no longer appeared to be bleeding, but that should have already been attended to. Why he wasn't at the hospital? And why was there was so much damned blood on him? Far too much for an arm wound.

"Got winged when I covered the kid," he muttered as if feeling her gaze. He poured another enormous shot and downed it in one long gulp, his long fingers clenched so tightly around the glass she feared it was going to shatter in his hand.

"He refused treatment at the scene," O'Hara offered, earning a muffled oath from Carlton.

"Is the situation under control?" She directed the question at O'Hara, though her gaze remained fixed on Carlton and the blood streaking his hands and forearms and even his face.

"Yes, ma'am. The family's been moved to a secure location and has an armed detail watching them while McNab and some of the others are taking statements from the drive-by assailants right now. Last I heard, they're breaking like bad china—as soon as we have all the details, SWAT's ready to go in and clean up the rest."

Those were the cut-and-dried details. But not the whole story. Karen knew better. Stepping away from Carlton, she rejoined O'Hara, walking her to the front door and stepping outside.

"What else?"

O'Hara slumped against the wall with a weary sigh. "During the drive-by, Sheridan threw himself over the family's grandmother. Saved her life."

Karen's heartbeat thundered in her ears, the senses honed after a lifetime on the job on high alert. She mentally rifled through the personnel files. Sheridan. Second year. Uniform. Looked up to McNab the way McNab looked up to Lassiter. Married. Baby on the way.

Jesus.

"And—?"

"Bullet to the neck." O'Hara swallowed hard. "Soon as those bastards had taken off, Carlton ordered me and McNab on pursuit. Last thing I saw before we took off was Carlton with his hands on Sheridan's neck, yelling at him there was no way he was letting him die."

Her damp blue gaze met Karen's. "I've never seen anyone as scared as Sheridan or as angry and determined as Carlton."

"Is he—" Karen began, but stopped as soon as O'Hara shook her head.

"In surgery. It's going to be a while before we know anything though." She straightened and fixed Karen with a direct gaze. "Ma'am, I'm not even going to pretend I know what the hell's going on, nor is it important right now. What's important is my partner."

Karen swallowed back a wave of irritation and defensiveness. She couldn't blame O'Hara one damned bit. "Understood."

Hesitation clearly flickered across O'Hara's face before settling into the determined lines that reflected the backbone of steel Karen had long ago recognized would enable the young detective to effectively partner with the irascible Carlton Lassiter. "And along those same lines, while I know it's none of my damned business, I do hope for both your sakes, you understand what you're doing."

Backbone of _steel_. Looking out for her partner the way he looked out for her. Admirable, but still—

_Shit._

"Juliet—" Karen's rare use of the younger woman's first name made her eyes widen and alerted her that this went beyond their positions as chief and detective. "My husband and I are separated. Carlton's been a friend. That's all."

O'Hara's nod made it clear she knew that was hardly all, but it was all she needed to know.

"It stays with me," she said quietly with a concerned look through the crack in the door.

"I appreciate that." She followed O'Hara's glance through the door, noting that the bottle of Jack already had a considerable dent in it. "I take it because he refused treatment he hasn't been cleared to return?"

O'Hara shrugged. "Like that would stop him. Actually, I think it's going to be tougher to keep him from the hospital. He wanted to go straight there but I told him he didn't need to be scaring Sheridan's family any more than they already were, showing up in his condition."

"Good call."

"Besides, you know what he's like when he's scared."

Angry. Belligerent. Aggressive. Yeah, O'Hara had made the right call.

"I'll take care of it."

"Thank you, ma'am."

With a final concerned glance through the door, O'Hara headed toward her car while Karen slipped back into the condo, locking the door behind herself. She found Carlton slumped on the kitchen floor, the empty glass beside him and his head cradled in one bloody hand. Filling a bowl with warm water, she knelt beside him and took his free hand, dipping a dishtowel in the water and using it to wipe the blood away.

"Don't."

"Shut up." The first hand clean, she reached for the other and repeated the process.

"Karen—"

Silently, she continued dipping the towel in the water, cleaning forearms and neck, suppressing a shiver at the thought of a bullet piercing his skin. Cupping her hand beneath his chin, she gently lifted his head, using a clean corner of the towel to carefully wipe blood from his forehead and the tense line of his jaw, her thumb rubbing at a smudge along the corner of his mouth. His steady blue gaze watched as she administered to him but otherwise he barely moved, barely breathed, it seemed.

It wasn't until she reached for the buttons on his ruined shirt that he spoke again.

"This isn't what I need."

Staring down at her hand poised on the first button, she quietly asked, "What do you need?"

His voice was ragged, revealing the cracks in the armor. "For you to leave me alone."

"I can't."

"Dammit, Karen—" He threw his glass with a frustrated growl. And as the glass met the wall and shattered, so did the fear and desire that had been building, colliding in one explosive rush. She wasn't sure who moved first—it didn't matter. What did matter was that finally, she was in his arms, fingers fumbling at his buttons as his mouth found hers, his hands impatiently pulling at her t-shirt, pulling away from her just long enough to yank it over her head as she dragged his shirt off his shoulders, whispering an apology against his mouth at his pained hiss.

Nothing coy, nothing shy about their kisses and their hands and how they wrapped themselves around each other, Carlton dragging her onto his lap and burying his head against her neck, his big hands spanning her shoulders. For a long time they did nothing more than kiss and explore what they could of each others' bodies until finally, he pushed her off and stood, the heated intent in his blue eyes perfectly clear.

"My room's closer," she murmured against his throat as they stumbled from the kitchen.

"My bed's bigger."

"Done."

Once they were actually in bed, however, it was as if time itself slowed down—every movement savored and drawn out as long as possible and for maximum enjoyment. Only once did the spell threaten to break, Karen tensing as Carlton trailed kisses down her torso and along her abdomen.

He lifted his head, his hand capturing hers. "What?"

"I just—" How to explain the faint scars, that distinctive pillowy give? "I'm—"

"Beautiful," he breathed against her skin as he cupped her breasts. With a sigh, she relaxed and gave herself over to his hands and his mouth and all the different ways he knew how to use both and _damn_—

Overriding the thrill of discovery and the heated lust of learning a new lover was one single. inarguable fact. He was very, _very _good at this_. _Better, even, than he was at cooking. Who knew?

Over and over, his mouth unerringly found every sensitive spot, alternating with his hands, taking her over the edge so often she was hoarse from gasping his name as she clawed at his back, begging him to stop, to never, ever stop.

Just as she was convinced it was his sole intent to drive her completely insane from an oversaturation of orgasmic bliss, he rose over her, supporting himself with one hand as with the other, he brushed her hair from her sweaty face. She couldn't even be bothered to worry about how ragged she must look, given he looked every bit as ragged and sweaty and more than a little tense, seeing as he'd been holding back until he'd assured himself she was well and honest-to-God satisfied. Except she wasn't—not completely.

"I suppose it's a little late to ask if you're sure about this?"

"Carlton, I swear, if you don't make love to me, right this second, I will kill you."

He smiled, a little feral a little desperate, and so shockingly sexy, she felt herself on the edge of another orgasm just from looking at him. "I thought that's what I'd been doing."

"Oh, for God's sake—" She pulled his head down to hers, hands tangled in his hair, her mouth exploring his. And once again the tempo changed, what had started out frenzied and impatient turning to something slow and unbearably sweet as he lowered himself and carefully fit his body to hers.

Muscles stretched and adapted and accepted, her body shifting beneath his as she learned him in this most basic of ways and sighed with an undeniable sense of completion.

It had been her husband for so long—and before him, only a few others—but oh, dear Lord it had _never_ been like this.

Maybe it was because she and Carlton were coming together as adults with histories and a lifetime of experiences and scars from their various emotional battles, but she knew—it'd never been like _this_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Have Tomorrow**

Nope, **psych** is still not mine, TPTB have everything, I've got nuthin', no infringement intended, just playing in the sandbox.

_Very_ mild **M, **but only if you squint.

* * *

><p>This was what he'd missed the most.<p>

The hushed quiet. A head on his shoulder, hand on his chest, the weight of a thigh over his, the soft warm length of a body pressed against his side. But perhaps the thing he'd missed the very most was the uniquely intimate feel of two individuals breathing as one, each inhale and exhale slow and measured and perfectly in sync.

Carlton stared into the dark, his hand idly toying with Karen's hair while she stroked his chest in a soothing, meditative motion. There had been a second bout of lovemaking in the shower after which she'd insisted on bandaging his arm, then they'd returned to bed and made love yet again—slow, intense, and yet one of the sweetest experiences he'd ever had, their hands locked together tightly, her eyes wide open and gazing directly into his as she gasped his name.

And then, she'd slid off and fitted herself closely to his side and there she'd remained and he'd remembered—this was what he'd missed the most.

"I had no idea you were hiding this under all those tailored suits." Karen's hand skimmed down his side and thigh before reversing its path back to his chest in a slow caress that heated his blood and made him shiver.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "That's because you never gave it a thought."

"Okay, true," she agreed with a laugh. "More fool me."

"Why?," he replied mildly and with no censure. "You had absolutely no reason to. And it's not as if it's all that."

"_Not_ true," she retorted and he couldn't deny deriving a certain pleasure from hearing the mild note of outrage. "You're extremely attractive, Carlton Lassiter." She moved her head back enough to look into his face. "Especially when you let your guard down enough for people to actually _see_ you."

Her face, in the dim light was equal parts stern and earnest and illuminated the way it was with the faint light streaming through the windows, almost heartbreakingly lovely. He traced her features with his fingertips. "I can't believe I never let myself see how beautiful you are," he murmured against her mouth before kissing her, slow and lingering and just long enough to stoke the heat that was turning out to never be too far from the surface.

Lifting his head, he eased her back to his shoulder, keeping her tucked securely against his side his hand resting on her hip.

"Because _you_ never gave it a thought," she said, her breath warm against his chest.

"You weren't available," he said, then mentally kicked himself. Way to go, dumbass. Break the mood. But at the same time, it was the truth and a fact of her life. The ring she'd worn might as well have been a wall as far as he was concerned. He'd never looked beyond it and wouldn't have either.

Luckily, his blunt statement didn't seem to offend or worse, hurt her.

"Honorable," she said quietly.

He snorted. "Not really."

"Oh no?" she shot back in a challenging tone. "How else would you explain not making a move on O'Hara, then?"

This time, he moved, sliding his head on the pillow far enough to look down into her face, with its knowing smile. Gently she added, "I know you've been more than a little in love with her for years."

Before tonight, Carlton would have gone ballistic if anyone had even implied such a thing, much less casually stated it as fact—never mind that it was true. But that had been before tonight. Before Karen. He didn't have a damned clue what would happen after tonight—but tonight everything was open and fair game. At least for him.

"It would have ruined two careers."

Her. "Try again," was dry and laced with the skepticism he'd come to associate with Karen Vick.

"I wasn't done, smartass," he murmured with another kiss to the top of her head.

"So then what?"

He sighed and propped his free arm beneath his head. "There was too much, Karen—our partnership, for one, which is the best one I've ever had and if I was going to blow it to hell, I would've had to have been absolutely sure. More importantly, though, there was always Spencer." His chest rose and fell with a huge breath, throughout which her hand never ceased its soothing strokes—small, easy circles, the tips of her fingers playing through the coarse hair. "Even if she could have ever looked past him to see me, he would still have been there—badgering, tormenting, pushing— being Spencer because he knows no other way to be. Ultimately, it would've ruined whatever we might have had. So yeah, I still love her—but I haven't been _in_ love with her for a long time now. I'll never be in love with her like that again." The shoulder beneath Karen's head moved in a slight shrug. "I'll still shoot him if he hurts her, though."

"Fair enough."

Quiet fell again, warm and somehow freer, lacking the weight of a secret too long held. He was glad someone knew. He was glad if anyone knew, it was Karen.

"You know, if… we—well… he'd probably be the first to figure it out. He'll… still be there. " Her voice was very quiet and muffled against his neck, but each slow, hesitant word reached him, loud and clear, and prompted hope to flutter tentative wings against the inside of his chest.

"Well, _if_—that would be different."

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing, it wouldn't matter to him because you're not O'Hara."

He couldn't be sure, but he thought he felt her relax against him.

"Is there a second thing?"

He hesitated only a second before flatly saying, "I wouldn't let him get between us."

That was all he would allow himself to say. He'd probably said too damned much as it was. She didn't need this. Not now.

Another several minutes elapsed.

"Carlton?"

"Don't worry, Karen—I know you were just speaking hypothetically."

Sitting up in a rush, she smacked his chest with the flat of her hand, hard enough to sting. "Don't _do_ that." She glared down at him, hair tumbled around her face, clutching the sheet to her chest.

"_Ow_." Honestly bewildered, he pushed himself up to sit against the headboard, rubbing his chest. "Do what?"

"Don't assume that I'm already thinking this is a mistake. Don't… close yourself off and shut down."

He blinked. "I wasn't."

His response seemed to take some of the wind from her righteous sails, although a good dose of suspicion remained. "You weren't?"

"Actually…" Surprised himself, he glanced away, then back, finding her gaze in the dimly lit room. "No." He reached out and tucked her hair behind one ear, cupping her cheek in his palm. "You've got a lot on your plate—a lot to take care of, especially Iris—without worrying about a hypothetical us. I wouldn't put that kind of pressure on you."

Slowly, she reached out and mirrored his pose, cupping his cheek in her palm, her thumb tracing a slow arc along his mouth, light and sweet. "Does that mean… you'd be interested in a non-hypothetical 'us?'"

"Yes," he replied simply. "But only if and when you're ready."

He could feel her faint smile against his palm, followed by a ghost of a kiss, then she went utterly still.

"What is it?"

Her voice was low, yet direct. "It's not fair, Carlton." She appeared to hesitate, then delicately added, "You're always waiting—"

She wouldn't ask, he knew. But the question was nevertheless there, woven within her quiet words. "I'm ending it." He drew Karen back against his chest, soothed by the feel of her body against his. Was it possible to get addicted in just a few hours? If so, it was going to make for some seriously hellish nights when their time-out-of-time interlude was over. "Even if you said tonight was it for us, it wouldn't be fair to keep things going with Marlowe. Not when—"

Damn. He couldn't say anything more. It was too soon. Too easily misinterpreted as a by-product of heightened emotion and physical release. Thankfully, she let it pass, with nothing more than a murmured, "See? Honorable."

"Not really." He pulled her over his body, groaning as she straddled his thighs. "What I'm thinking right now is actually pretty dishonorable."

"Oh?" She tunneled her fingers through his hair, her blunt nails scratching lightly at his scalp and eliciting another groan. "That sounds promising."

And with what was quite possibly the _worst_ timing ever, his cell phone chose that moment to buzz with an incoming call. "_Damn_." His hands tightened on her hips, knowing their night was over.

"Part of the job, Carlton," she soothed, leaning forward and retrieving the phone for him. While he sat up and answered, she slipped off the bed and into the bathroom .

"Yeah—my car's still at the station, so I'll need a uniform to pick me up." She reappeared, wrapped in his spare robe and idly, he wondered if he could convince her to wear nothing but his robes around the house. "I'll be ready in twenty. Thanks."

He disconnected the call and tossed the phone back to the table and she sat beside him, placing a comforting hand on his thigh.

"How's Sheridan?" she asked quietly.

"The bullet made a hell of a mess, but by some miracle, it missed the spinal cord. He's gonna have a long road back, but he's going to make it." Taking her hand in his, he exhaled a huge sigh of relief tinged with apprehension. "I'm going to the hospital to talk to the family, then I'll probably go on to the station. Lot to clean up."

Out of habit, he searched her face for any signs of irritation or anger—everything he'd been accustomed to seeing in Victoria's face when the job would take him away—exhaling a sigh of relief when Karen's expression revealed nothing more than thoughtful understanding. "Keep your jacket on, but don't wear a tie when you talk to the family," she advised. "You want to give an air of relaxed confidence—a tie makes it too somber. Too official."

He nodded, recalling how he'd seen her deal with families—calm, reassuring, steady, warm—everything he wasn't. Panic flared in his chest, cutting off his breath. "Do you want to come, too?" he asked, praying she'd say yes and knowing she wouldn't, even before she shook her head.

"This one's yours, Carlton—you're the acting chief."

"They're going to blame me."

"They won't. But even if they did, they'd be wrong." Her voice was firm. "What happened to Sheridan is a risk we all take when we swear the oath and put on the badge and he'd be the first to acknowledge that."

True. But not good enough. Not for him. "It happened on my watch."

"Jesus, Carlton—" With her free hand she took his chin and turned his head to face her completely. And was it completely wrong for him to be thinking that pissed as she was—and no mistake, she _was_ pissed, eyes narrow, color high, even in the dim room—she looked absolutely magnificent? Probably. But he couldn't help it.

"One of _my_ officers was on the take. Killed a suspect literally under my nose and attempted to frame my head detective before trying to kill him _and_ a civilian consultant—and he very nearly succeeded. And that happened on _my_ watch."

Carlton opened his mouth, completely prepared to defend her actions and stopped at the expression on Karen's face, relaxing into a rueful laugh. "Point made, Chief."

She leaned forward until her forehead touched his, her breath warm against his skin. "I'm not saying you ignore it—you just have to find a way to compartmentalize. Find a place for it and use the knowledge gained from the experience. Otherwise, this job will end you. And we can't have that." She smiled and it very nearly broke him.

The timing, the person, the situation—none of it was what he would have ever expected from falling in love again.

Freakin' Universe, Unknown, and Hope. Triumvirate of evil bastards.

* * *

><p>Late that afternoon Carlton was in the chief's office, signing off on the last of the paperwork—for the moment—on the Los Tigres case when he heard the door closing quietly. Without lifting his head, he knew it was O'Hara—had been waiting for it all day, dreading the talk they'd have to have yet knowing it had to happen before they could go out into the field together again. Partners couldn't go out with that many questions and uncertainties between them—people got hurt that way and he'd be damned if he'd let that happen. And much as he might want to think it was his and Karen's business and no one else's the fact was, it affected O'Hara, too, even if indirectly. So if it took an uncomfortable talk, then an uncomfortable talk they'd have.<p>

With a deep breath, he rapped the papers sharply against the desk and set them aside, carefully lining up his pen across the top of the blotter. Finally he looked up.

"O'Hara, whatever you're thinking, I can guarantee you, it's the furthest thing possible from the truth."

"Carlton, I don't know what the hell _to_ think." She leaned forward in her chair, hissing, "You and the _Chief_?"

"And I'm telling you, it's _not_ what you think."

_Probably a hell of a lot closer than it would have been twenty-four hours ago._

He shook off the nagging internal voice. _So_ not the point.

To his surprise, O'Hara neither badgered him for further details or insisted that she _knew_ something more was going on. Fact was, the expression in those wide-set eyes that so rarely missed anything revealed she knew _more_ than enough. With anyone else he would have either gone into belligerent denial tinged with a nice side of panic, but not with O'Hara. She was his partner—and his friend—and she'd keep his secret, whether he actually shared it with her or not.

However, that didn't mean she was done with him.

"You know, a long time ago, Chief Vick gave me some advice."

"About?"

"Being a woman in this department." Her gaze turned inward as she recalled, "How we can't have friends the same way the men can. No matter how well we do our jobs, we're _always_ going to be held to a different standard." Snapping out of her thoughts, that direct blue gaze found his once more. "And it's true. I nearly got slapped with an interdepartmental harassment claim for buying someone a damned cupcake. And think about _your_ last partner—who got transferred out?"

As an alarming range of scenarios and ramifications began scrolling through his mind, she stood and leaned across the desk. Placing her hand over his, she very gently said, "All I'm asking is, whatever's going on—whatever you decide to do—just keep that in mind, okay?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Have Tomorrow**

Unfortunately, the New Year did not bring me any ownership in **psych**. As usual, no infringement intended, no profit gained other than the lovely reviews that come from playing in the sandbox and building fanciful castles.

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><p>Not only was the chair Carlton had chosen for her room extremely welcoming, it was large enough to hold both of them. Closely, but maybe that's what made it so comfortable. Cradled in his lap, Karen breathed deep—his clean soap and sandalwood combining with her own jasmine and vanilla—trying to imprint on her sense of smell what the two of them were like together. But it still wasn't enough. She ran her fingers through his hair, twisting them through the various cowlicks and cropped curls and shifted slightly in his lap, attempting to sink as far into him as she possibly could. Her fingertips traced the long line of his throat and along his chest, placing her palm flush over his heartbeat and smiling as she felt it speed up slightly.<p>

"You keep that up and we're going to get in trouble." His voice was half-amused, half… not.

She leaned in, her lips grazing the edges of his ear, and whispered, "What if that's exactly the kind of trouble I'm looking to get into?"

"Karen," he said, the amusement gone, replaced with warning—and regret. She dropped her head to his shoulder with a resigned sigh. He was right, dammit. Not that she would ever shy away from challenging him, but not about this. And not now.

"I'm sorry," she said against his neck, even as she fought renewed temptation to press her lips to the beard roughened skin. He hadn't shaved all weekend—not much of a need for it, really, seeing as they'd spent the majority of it in bed. A pleasant side benefit had come from seeing how two days' worth of beard softened his angular features while at the same time lending them an unexpected ruggedness. A look completely foreign to the very proper, very professional, Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective, but perfectly in keeping with the relaxed, protective, private Carlton she now knew so well.

Initially, he'd eyed her warily at the suggestion that he skip shaving in favor of staying in bed, making her wonder if his ex-wife had objected to anything other than close-shaved, but then she'd draped herself over him and showed him just how much _she_ liked it and in how many ways it could even be considered a benefit and by the time he brought it up again, it had been much easier to convince him yeah, she really, really liked the beard—and him—just the way he was. A way so very few people had ever had opportunity to see.

Her Carlton.

Even though she probably had no right thinking that.

She sighed again and he tightened his arms around her.

"Karen—" The warning had dissipated, his voice echoing the same longing contained in her sigh. Lifting her head, she met his mouth with hers, their kiss leisurely and imbued with an easy familiarity, yet at the same time underscored with a definite air of urgency.

Drawing back slightly, he quietly said, "Time's up,"

She buried her head against his shoulder. "I don't want it to be."

"Me neither."

With a deep breath, she lifted her head, her gaze landing on the two cases sitting open on the neatly made bed she hadn't made use of since Tuesday night. At Carlton's gentle urging she slid from his lap and stood, automatically glancing down at her watch. Her parents would be back in Santa Barbara in a little over an hour and dropping Iris off at home which left her just enough time to stop by the grocery store to restock and try to get her act together. Enough was enough. She'd left her ex a message earlier in the week saying if he didn't stop by tonight, then she was telling Iris by herself. Which would suck on so many levels, but she was tired of playing his game, especially when she didn't even know what his goddamned game was.

Behind her, Carlton quietly left the room, murmuring that he'd be right back. She checked the closet and bathroom one last time, knowing she hadn't left anything behind, but still oddly reluctant to close her suitcases. There was just such an air of finality about it—the zipping shut of the cases signifying a definite end to this completely unexpected, unexpectedly magical time.

"All right, Vick—time to pull on your big girl panties and get on with it."

Clenching her jaw, she zipped one suitcase closed then stepped in front of the second one. As she did, a neatly folded bundle of blue plaid appeared and was gently placed in the case. Startled, she looked up into those impossibly blue eyes and caught her breath. At different times over the years she'd seen the expression in them range from angry to fierce to bewildered to scathing to determined. More recently, she'd learned how they looked sleepy and sensual and tender and brilliant with passion and determination of a whole different kind.

What she saw in them now, though—

She still couldn't quite breathe.

"Keep it." For once, the quiet sureness that had been such an integral part of him the past two weeks seemed to desert him. "So you can remember—"

"I don't need your robe to remember." She gave the soft fabric a brief caress before turning and winding her arms around his lean waist. "But I'm not going to say no, either because I'm just selfish enough to want to keep a part of you with me. At least until we—"

One long-fingered hand came up to her mouth. "Uh-uh. We promised."

Frustrated, she broke away and zipped the suitcase shut with jerky motions.

"You know it's the right thing to do."

_Damn_ him for being so reasonable. And right.

"I know." Exhausted, she sank to the edge of the mattress. "And I'm not mad at you. I am, however, absolutely furious with my ex—" Her fists clenched against her thighs. "For leaving the way he did, for this stupid silence of his, and most of all, for keeping me hanging where Iris is concerned. If he'd only done what he'd said—"

"Then we wouldn't have happened," Carlton broke in.

The truth in his soft, yet blunt, words stopped her cold.

He pulled the suitcases off the bed and sat beside her, taking her clenched hands in his. "Look, I _hate_ the pain he's inflicted on you, Karen—" A faint tremor shook his hands, making her relax hers into a gentle hold. "And I'll be honest, I've spent more than a few hours thinking of suitable forms of revenge—checking to see if he has any outstanding warrants or parking tickets or rubbing the interior of his car with poison ivy. At the same time, though, I'm just enough of a bastard to be more than a little glad things unfolded the way they did. "

His admission was quiet, but all the more fierce and passionate for it.

Working one of her hands free, she lifted it to his bent head, stroking the salt-and-pepper strands. So soft in spite of the military precision of the haircut normally keeping them restrained. Contradictory, just like the man himself.

"Carlton, I—"

A slight hitch trapped her voice in her throat and he filled in the blank with a resigned, "Need to go." Misunderstanding her slight hesitation.

Shit—_not_ was she was going to say, at all. But why had she hesitated? Was it because it was too soon? All right, yes— by most people's standards, but they weren't most people. And it wasn't as if she'd ever been the indecisive sort. She had the ability to run through scenarios and come to conclusions with ridiculous speed—always seen as an asset in her professional life. Admittedly, in her personal life, the opposite had been true, others making the assumption she was fickle, when in reality, that was the furthest thing from the truth. Once she made her choice, that was it. And never once had that decisiveness steered her wrong.

So why hesitate now? When she _knew_?

Because, dammit.

Because this scenario involved more than just her or Carlton. Because it involved their respective careers, and Iris' happiness and security, and much as she hated to admit it, even her ex. Because there were a _lot_ of variables to factor beyond what she desperately wanted.

With a lingering kiss, Carlton rose and crossed to the desk. Opening a drawer, he removed something and returning to her, placed the object in her palm.

Looking down at it, she sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh my God—I can't believe I never missed it."

"I guess you were ready to take it off." Carefully, he folded her fingers over the simple gold ring she'd worn for so long.

"I guess." Karen stared at her closed fist then looked up at Carlton who was gazing at her with a smile that made her feel giddy and weak-kneed in a way she hadn't since, well… pretty much ever. "I guess… I was ready for a lot of things."

* * *

><p>Karen had had every intention of waiting until late Monday afternoon to call Carlton into her office for the expected rundown of his time as acting Chief. Her reasoning had been that she'd need most of the day in which to get caught up, plus, more selfishly, it would give them some quiet time at the end of the day. Where she could savor his voice and his smile and perhaps even a glancing touch or two that she could take home. Stolen moments she could hold on to late at night, when it was so dark and so quiet, she could almost imagine him lying beside her.<p>

She lasted until 9:17AM.

Leaning through the door to her office, she spotted him at his desk, head down as he wrote. "Detective Lassiter—a moment?"

Lifting his head, he nodded coolly, blue eyes icy and demeanor so utterly his normal, stern Lassiter-esque, panic washed over her, leaving her honestly wondering if the events of the last two weeks had been nothing but an illusion brought on by shock, loneliness, and a _hell_ of a lot of bourbon. The only thing that managed to convince her she hadn't completely lost her mind was the quizzical expression she glimpsed on O'Hara's face as she glanced up from her own work. Leaving the door ajar, Karen retreated to her desk where she dropped into her chair and turned to face out the window as if waving palm fronds were the most interesting thing ever. At least that way, no one had a chance in hell of seeing the trembling of her hands.

As she heard him enter, she kept her stare fixed on the view. "Close the door."

Only after she heard the quiet click did she turn, nearly slumping in her chair with relief. Oh, thank God. There he was. Standing as tall and erect as the charcoal suit and somber blue and red tie demanded, clean shaven and every hair in place, but he _was_ there in the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and the softening of his gaze. Her Carlton.

"I'm sorry," he said as he eased into one of the seats in front of the desk.

"You scared me," she admitted.

His long fingers restlessly toyed with a pencil. "I had to force myself to take it to an extreme, Karen. I wasn't sure how I was going to react when I saw you."

She wouldn't ask. She would _not_ ask.

As his expression changed, she realized she didn't have to. Her entire body heated as he leaned forward, his deep-set eyes brilliant blue and framed with those dark lashes and intent in a way she'd grown intimately familiar with—and maybe more importantly, that she'd honestly never seen within the confines of her office.

To borrow a Carlton-ism, holy _crap_, sitting in her office was going to be a bitch, now that she had _this_ as a visual.

"I was going to wait until this afternoon for us to talk," she confessed. "In an official capacity, mostly, but also because I wanted talking to you to be the last thing I did before I went home."

A charged silence fell between them. When he spoke again his voice was lower and faintly ragged. "What changed?"

"My ex finally came by last night."

He went utterly still, waiting—

"We told Iris that while we would always love her, we wouldn't be living together anymore."

Carlton remained cloaked in that dangerous stillness as he asked, "And?"

Karen sighed. "She was upset, but remarkably accepting. I think so many of her classmates have divorced parents, it's not a big deal. Especially since it hasn't been this big, traumatic thing—at least, not where she's concerned. There's been no shouting or arguing or even the slightest hint of drama. It just sort of quietly... died." She stared down at her hands, idly noting that the indentation that had marked the ring finger on her left hand had completely faded. "I also learned why he hadn't come by the house to take anything. Apparently—" She took a deep breath. "His fiancée doesn't really want anything from his old life in their place."

The pencil snapped. "Son of a _bitch._"

"Carlton." It took a good half minute and a steady glare on her part, but finally, he relaxed his instinctive hold on his weapon. With a huff of breath that was half-disgusted, half-sheepish, he dropped his hand back to the arm of his chair. She couldn't deny, though, that seeing that instinctive, fierce reaction made her feel better. "Apparently, he's been taking clothes over there for months and I never even noticed."

His mouth thinned into a frown, the two deep lines appearing between his brows. "This isn't your fault, Karen," he said tersely.

"I have to take some responsibility here, Carlton," she said gently. Leaning forward, she allowed her clasped hands to slide forward, just far enough to graze his where they rested on the desk's surface. "I have to admit that I allowed my marriage to drift away."

"And how hard, really, did _he_ fight to keep it anchored?" he retorted, an angry red suffusing his face.

She knew he was recalling the more than two years he'd spent trying every damned thing under the sun to save his own marriage. The measures he was _still_ taking, to this day, to make himself a better man. One worthy of a lifetime commitment.

And people thought he was so inflexible and unyielding. If they only knew.

"I think it's fair to say we both failed."

He didn't look convinced, but to give the man credit, all he did was nod, willing, if reluctant, to let her have this one.

Noticing a few curious glances as people filed past the glass door, she pasted a smile on her face. Correctly interpreting the change in her expression, Carlton immediately eased back and stood, and to her surprise, reached into his inside jacket pocket for a white business envelope that he placed on the desk in front of her.

"I wasn't going to give this to you just yet because by doing so, it means I'm breaking our promise." His wide shoulders slumped beneath the tailored lines of his jacket, helplessly, she thought. "Maybe it's too soon, maybe it's not fair, but—" His voice faded and he gazed down at her, his expression schooled into carefully neutral lines, although his eyes betrayed a turbulence that she felt as keenly if it was physically reaching out and tying her in knots.

"Don't look that way, Karen, please." After a quick glance over his shoulder, he moved to the corner of her office least visible to passers by. Without hesitation, she joined him, immediately taking his hands in hers.

"What is it, Carlton?" Blood rushed in her ears, her voice thready as she asked, "What the hell's in that envelope?"

"The first and last promise I ever break to you. Everyhing I can't say out loud just yet."

With another quick glance over his shoulder, he bent his head, kissed her hard enough to leave her breathless, and was gone.

* * *

><p><em>Karen—<em>

_Enclosed you'll find my letter of resignation. Before you completely freak out, please note that it's neither dated, nor signed, which means it's not official. What it is, however, is a promise._

_These past two weeks… initially, I thought I couldn't even begin to put into words what they meant to me yet the more I thought about it, the more I knew exactly what words to use:_

_I love you. _

_I know we agreed it was too soon to talk about moving forward—that what happened between us happened so fast and at such an emotional crossroads for you that we'd need time to figure out what, exactly had happened and if it was something that would be viable once things settled down._

_We both also know I suck at patience and waiting and on top of it, I'm a miserably selfish son of a bitch. Nothing I'm especially proud of, but I hope you'll at least give me credit for trying to own my character flaws._

_So yeah, I love you. More than I've ever loved anyone before. More than I could have ever imagined loving anyone. And if you'll have me, I want to be with you—always. I know I'll never be Iris' father, but I want to get to know her and maybe someday, I can be worthy of being a parent to her. At the very least, I want to be the man you can count on when being a mother is impossibly hard as well as standing by your side and sharing your joy in all those firsts we talked about._

_Which brings me to my resignation._

_The simple fact of the matter is, if we begin a relationship while I'm still Head Detective, your objectivity and leadership is going to be called into question and you will most likely be relieved of your position._

_Your opting to resign, if you considered doing anything that stupid (which I wouldn't let you, so don't even think about it), would be pointless. If we're already involved there's no way in hell I'd never get promoted and frankly, even if we weren't I don't think I'd be promoted. Moreover, I don't think I want it. This thing that was so important to me for so long—that seemed so representative of the pinnacle of my career just doesn't matter anymore. It already felt less important before we happened and now... well, let's just say I could give less of a crap._

_We both know if I'm the one who resigns, any potential conflict of interest is removed, the politics are a hell of a lot easier to sidestep, and the right person remains in the right job. _

_So this is what I want you to do. You hold on to that letter of resignation. When you're ready—for… us—you let me know and I'll sign it and we'll start moving forward._

_And if that day never comes, know that I will always treasure the memory of the time we had._

_And that I love you._

_Carlton._


	9. Chapter 9

**Have Tomorrow**

Yeah, still no ownership in **psych**. As usual, no infringement intended, no profit gained, TPTB have everything, I'm just playing in the sandbox.

As we head into the final two chapters of this fic (yes, _two—_originally this was intended to be the last one, but the characters kind of want more resolution. ANYHOW), I just wanted to take a moment to thank all of you who've read and left reviews for what's admittedly, a rarely seen pairing. Thanks for being willing to go on this ride with me and being so supportive.

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><p>"Dude, what's with all the kids wandering around here?"<p>

Carlton kept his head lowered, ostensibly working on files for his latest case, while ignoring Spencer. Admittedly, it _was_ easier than usual, mostly because his attention was focused on waiting on one person—two, really.

"It's Take Your Sons and Daughters to Work Day, Shawn," Guster explained as they perched in their usual spots by O'Hara's desk. "Lots of kids coming by my company, too. Which, by the way, I need to get back to soon—my lunch break is almost over."

Ignoring his best friend and, of course, being Spencer, completely unwilling to be content with a simple explanation. launched himself in typical idiotic Spencer-fashion, past Carlton and towards his father's desk, wailing, "Papa!" as he draped himself over Henry.

"Papa, take me to work with you, please, Papa, _please_!"

"Give it a rest Shawn or I'll have you thrown in lockup."

"Oh, is that one of the _special_ places, Papa?" Spencer threw himself across Henry's desk, jostling it, which in turn, jarred Carlton's desk, knocking his monitor off-kilter. "Please show me—I promise I'll be a good monkey boy, I will."

"Spencer, knock it off or you'll be wishing your dad had thrown you into lockup," Carlton snapped, although outside of one annoyed glance and pausing to readjust his monitor, he otherwise ignored Spencer, returning to his work and more importantly, waiting.

Several moments passed, during which he became aware of an odd silence as well as a distinct sensation of being watched. Lifting his head once more, he found Spencer, Guster, Henry, O'Hara, and even McNab staring at him with varying degrees of confusion.

"_What_?"

"You didn't draw your weapon." Guster spoke first, probably because he stood the furthest—read: safest—distance from Carlton's desk.

"Yeah, you didn't even _threaten_ to draw your weapon," McNab offered, adding a hasty, "Sir," as Carlton narrowed his eyes.

"Hell, if I drew my weapon every time Spencer was an idiot—" he retorted, trying to refocus on his screen while at the same time, making certain she hadn't slipped in while the peanut gallery was going through their paces.

"It's never stopped you from threatening," O'Hara offered in her usual practical tone. Carlton started to roll his eyes, but froze as her gaze caught his then shifted to look just past him as her chin lifted slightly. Sure, he could have turned, followed O'Hara's subtle signal, just to be sure, but as he'd quickly learned, he didn't have to. Inevitably, the tiny hairs at the back of his neck would prickle with awareness, before catching a whiff of jasmine and vanilla or picking up the unique pitch of her voice, all before he ever had visual confirmation.

Hell, though, even without those little hints, he'd just _know_.

"Chief!" Shawn bounded like a rabid Tigger over to where Karen stood at the perimeter of the bullpen. Beside her, holding tight to her hand and looking suitably freaked, stood Iris, who Carlton easily recognized from the pictures Karen had so proudly shown him.

"Mr. Spencer," she replied evenly and with a death glare that stopped Shawn dead in his tracks. "I take it you have some reason for being here?"

Even as Carlton mentally applauded—not to mention, was more than a little turned on by—Karen's cool, take-no-prisoners demeanor, he practically twitched with the desire to go and shield Karen and especially Iris from Spencer's buffoonery. He settled for standing—and glaring some more, not that the idiot noticed.

"Take it easy, partner."

O'Hara appeared beside him, as steady and calming as always.

They'd talked about the whole situation once—two months earlier, just after he'd given Karen his letter. Part of him hadn't wanted to. Had wanted to keep what had happened between them private as long as possible, because it was special and just theirs—but hell, O'Hara was his partner and his friend and if he was considering resigning, she needed to be made aware of that fact. Of course, being O'Hara, she'd managed to pry the entire story— minus details that were only his and Karen's—from him, but only after he'd sworn her to secrecy, even from Shawn. It'd felt good, frankly. Even if O'Hara had smacked him for writing that letter of resignation. She was fully of the opinion that it would all work out eventually, but then again, she was a cockeyed optimist, an opinion _he'd_ voiced and that had earned him another smack.

And while she'd been sympathetic to his impatience, she'd also been the voice of reason, warning him that Karen needed time. Not so much to mourn the loss of her marriage or even to get used to the unexpected reality of a relationship with Carlton, but for Iris.

Damn, but he hated reason. It had crappy timing and blew dead goats. But even if O'Hara hadn't said so, both he and Karen had known she needed time. It wasn't just the split, but more a case of allowing Iris to adjust to the new rhythms of her life as well as the fact that she'd have a step-mother almost before the ink was dry on the divorce papers. To that end, they'd agreed to restrain themselves—at least for the time being—to nothing more than everyday work interactions and nightly phone calls. Leisurely, hushed conversations where they'd share confidences and histories and something else Carlton had never allowed himself much of—dreams.

Hours that were easily the highlight of his day and at the same time, the worst sort of torture, leaving him lying in bed, restless and aching and wanting nothing more than to move forward, _already_.

Oh, yeah—reason sucked big, hairy dead goats. Then again, at least she hadn't said she'd thought they were mistake. She hadn't said she needed to take a step back or God forbid, there was no way a relationship between them could work. Hell, he was used to waiting. And the one thing he hadn't changed his mind about was that Karen Vick was absolutely worth waiting for.

"Roger, that, O'Hara. I'm not going to kill him," he muttered. "Yet."

"Good," she replied. "I know he's difficult but he generally means well."

"Yeah, well that brings us back to your being a cockeyed optimist."

"Really? You're going to go back to that again?"

"Truth hurts," he grumbled ducking her hand as she tried to smack him. They turned their attention to Spencer, providing a sideshow, as always.

"Of course I've got a reason for being here, Chief—my Daddy brought me to work today."

"Did not," Henry said without raising his head from the files he'd returned to perusing.

"But it's Bring Your Grown Children and Any Strays You Happen to Find On the Side of the Road to Work Day, right? Which would account for why Gus is here."

"Shawn—" Gus interjected with a long-suffering sigh, "it's Bring Your Sons and Daughters to Work Day."

"I've heard it both ways." Shawn knelt in front of Iris who was staring at him with wide dark eyes that Carlton suspected were really more hazel than true brown. "Hi, I'm Shawn Spencer and the grumpy bald guy over there is my dad, Henry."

Beside Carlton, O'Hara sighed. "Never mind. I take it all back."

"And that's my girlfriend, Juliet who also works here and like I said, this is Gus. Who actually doesn't really work here and whose real name is McQuistan Cadavercakes and over there, that's Buzz and the tight-a—"

"_Shawn!_" The appalled chorus of Gus, O'Hara, and Henry were overridden by Karen's sharp, "Mr. _Spencer_—" which finally seemed to draw the jackass up short and even prompted a rare blush as Karen continued glaring at him.

"Sorry, Chief," Shawn muttered as he slunk a safe distance away.

While Shawn had been going through his shtick, Iris' gaze had found Carlton's, studying him with a thoughtful, assessing stare. A _familiar_ stare. Letting go of her mother's hand, she approached him.

"You're Carlton."

"I am," he replied, the fact that she'd used his first name not having escaped him. "And you're Iris," he said as he dropped to one knee in front of her. She nodded shyly, blonde pigtails bobbing against shoulders left bare by her bright pink sundress.

"My mommy talks a lot about you."

"Oh, I'll bet she does," Shawn drawled in the background. "Lassie stories are probably crazy-effective for scaring kids straight. 'Do your homework, wash behind your ears, be good, or you, too, could end up a dried-up, bitter, stick-in-the-mud—'"

Carlton barely heard Spencer's stupid ramblings as he met Karen's gaze over the top of Iris' head. She'd talked to her daughter. About him.

His gaze returned to Iris who was continuing to study him. "Your eyes are even bluer than she said. They're very pretty."

"So are yours." Yep. Definitely more hazel than true brown, with flecks of green and gold. He ignored the odd silence that had fallen over their immediate audience, his attention focused solely on Iris. "Your mommy talks a lot about you, too." Easing back into his desk chair he added, "I've really been looking forward to meeting you."

"Again."

Once more, his gaze flickered over to Karen then back to Iris. "Again?"

"Mommy told me you were there when I was born," the little girl explained matter-of-factly. "She said you helped her." The last uttered with a note that sounded suspiciously like pride.

"I did," he replied simply, recalling that day. Karen's determination underscored with fear, the painful pressure of her hand gripping his as she'd fought to bring Iris into the world, and most of all, the warm, surprisingly comfortable weight of Iris in his arms, moments after she'd been born—the closest he'd ever come to fatherhood.

"You know what your mommy's told me about you?"

She shook her head. He beckoned her closer and after a quick look back over her shoulder at her mother, she approached. Carlton leaned down close, as if sharing a confidence and quietly said, "She says you like horses. Is that true?"

Iris nodded, her eyes widening and making Carlton smile. "Don't get too excited. Nowhere to hide a horse around here. At least not a real one. However—" He reached back and pulled open the lowest drawer of his desk.

"For me?" Iris asked as he handed her a bright pink gift bag.

"Do you know any other Irises who like horses?" he asked conversationally, making her giggle as she unceremoniously plopped the bag in his lap and pulled out wads of tissue until she got to a distinctive yellow box.

"He's beautiful," she breathed, looking through the clear plastic window at the Breyer model.

"She, actually," Carlton corrected gently. "Her name is Rachel Alexandra and she's a very famous racehorse."

She looked up from the box, blinking in surprise. "You like horses, too?"

"I do—very much."

Another smile broke through, as if they were sharing the world's best secret. "Can I play with her?"

"Of course, she's yours."

"Hey Lassiter," Guster broke in, as Carlton opened the box and removed the insert, "doesn't that devalue—" he started before closing his mouth with an audible snap as Carlton leveled a narrow-eyed glare at the younger man. "Never mind."

He didn't give a rat's ass if it devalued the figure. While finding this particular model had taken some doing, he hadn't bought it to impress anyone or have it kept in a box.

"Aw, isn't that sweet, Lassie keeps toys in his desk," Spencer snarked, then yelped in pain as O'Hara jabbed an elbow into his ribs.

"Have you taken a look at _your_ office?"

"Or your apartment" Guster added.

"Or your old room at my place," Henry chimed in.

"Those are _collectibles_," Shawn protested.

"Shawn, in no universe is the entire Kajagoogoo discography on vinyl considered a collectible," Juliet countered.

While Shawn continued arguing the relative merits of his collection of crap, Carlton freed the bay filly from the various plastic ties and handed it to Iris. As he gathered all various bits of detritus and tissue and stuffed them back in the bag, he said, "One reason I thought you'd like her is she was born the exact same year you were."

"Cool," the little girl breathed. Without hesitation, she clambered into Carlton's lap, her attention focused on the graceful horse. Stunned, he slowly put one arm around her to keep her steady as he glanced past the shocked-into-silence spectators to Karen, her eyes suspiciously bright as she watched her daughter playing with her new toy.

Iris turned in his lap, oblivious to the adult emotion swirling around her. "Do you know how to ride?"

At his nod, her smile grew broader. "Can you show me how?"

Carlton looked down into her open, trusting face, something deep inside twisting with the sweetest hurt he'd ever experienced. "If it's okay with your mother," he said, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rising.

"Oh, I think it'll be okay with her," Karen said, one hand gently stroking Iris' head, the other settling on his shoulder. At her unexpected touch, Carlton stiffened, then slowly looked up into her face, the deep twisting settling into a slow, intense burn at what he saw in her face. At her nod, his free hand rose to cover the one she had resting on his shoulder.

"We need to talk," she said quietly. She addressed the only other adult in their small group not standing and gaping like a Village Idiot. "Detective O'Hara, do you think you could show Iris around the station for a few minutes?"

"Of course." Juliet approached, directing a pleased—albeit concerned—smile at Carlton before she turned her attention to Iris. "Iris, would you like to go see the different places your mommy does her work?"

Once again Iris twisted in Carlton's lap. "Can't you show me?" she asked, looking up at him with a stricken expression that delivered a whole new level of hurt. It was hard enough seeing that sort of dismay reflected in Karen's eyes—seeing it in Iris'? Felt like someone was digging a heated blade between his ribs and twisting. Slowly.

Holy crap, but he was so completely screwed.

"I need to talk to your mommy first," he said, mildly panicked because he desperately wanted to make Iris happy, almost as much as he desperately wanted to corner Karen and ask if she was _sure_. After he kissed her. And offered to do anything in his power to make _her_ happy. And kissed her some more.

"After we're done, I'll come find you and show you around."

Her eyes narrowed in a manner eerily like her mother's. "Promise?"

"Promise," he agreed. "And if it's okay with your mother, maybe we'll go get frozen yogurt, too." Hell, he'd promise her anything—as long as it wiped that expression from her face.

Breathing easier as she smiled and nodded, he helped her from his lap and watched her walk off with O'Hara, clutching Rachel Alexandra and trailed by a hilariously subdued Spencer and Guster. Henry, quicker to recover, was staring at them with a look on his face that was trapped somewhere between surprise and admiration.

"So—" He shook his head. "The two of you,"

Carlton looked at Karen and despite the knowledge that his career as Head Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department was mere minutes away from ending couldn't do anything other than grin and echo, "Yeah. The two of us."

"And now, Henry, if you'll excuse us—" Karen took Carlton's hand and led him to her office. After closing the door, he dragged her into the corner and spun her into his arms, kissing her like a starving man presented with his first meal in weeks.

"_You_ are going to have to toughen up." He could feel her smiling as she whispered against his mouth. "Otherwise Iris will run roughshod over you."

"I've got time to learn," he murmured back, his teeth dragging against the full sweep of her lower lip, his groin tightening at her soft moan. "And you'll show me how." With effort, he pulled back far enough to meet her gaze. "Right?" he asked, suddenly uncertain and terrified that he'd misinterpreted, well... everything.

The sunlight streaming in through the window picked up the flecks of green and gold scattered throughout the deep amber and her smile, as she gazed up at him, was a familiar combination of tolerant exasperation coupled with a deeper emotion he hadn't really seen for nearly two months. He'd heard it in her voice during those late night calls, but to be seeing it again—_feeling_ it surrounding him—God, how he'd missed it. How he'd missed _her_.

"Dear God, Carlton, _yes_. To both questions."

Grasping her upper arms, he eased her back, just far enough to get some much-needed oxygen to his brain so he could think straight. "Get the damned letter." He fumbled in his pocket for a pen while she crossed to her desk and opened a drawer. Removing the envelope he'd given her all those weeks ago, she pulled his letter free. Instead of handing it to him, however, she deliberately and with great care and precision, tore it in half. And as he gaped in shock, tore it in half again.

"Karen—"

"Shut up, Carlton."

"But—"

"Shut up." Said with enough humor and affection to allow him to start breathing again. Sort of. Although the rate at which his heart was currently hammering against his chest was making full breaths difficult to achieve.

"_You_ are not resigning," he said. Even managed a bit of his usual stern tone, though he knew it wouldn't work worth a damn with her.

"No, I'm not," she agreed before crossing her arms and saying in her best Chief Vick tone, "But neither are you." Rounding the desk once more, she stopped in front of him, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. "Better," she murmured, almost to herself, before reaching back to the desk and picking up another white envelope that she handed him.

"What is this?" he asked, running the tips of his fingers over his name, neatly inscribed on the front.

Rather than answer, however, she merely urged him to sit, drawing another chair alongside his and sitting back. Waiting. Looking so damned beautiful, all he could think was to hell with letters and jobs and anything else. Good Lord, if Goochberg could run off to Bali—

"Carlton, read it, please."

The slightly desperate note in her voice made him grin—good to know it wasn't just him—even as he felt the tension snaking low in his belly again. _Soon_, it was saying. _Soon_.

Opening the flap on the envelope, he removed a heavy cream-colored sheet, faintly scented with jasmine and vanilla and covered in her neat, economical script.

* * *

><p><em>My Carlton—<em>

_Because that's what you are, you know. Mine._

_And because you're mine means I have a responsibility to you as well as to myself and to Iris and to our future._

_With that in mind let me just say right off the bat, hell, no, you're not resigning. Oh, and neither am I._

_Let's break this down, shall we?_

_You were Head Detective with an exemplary record of service well before I became Chief of Police. You have continued your extraordinary service throughout the past six-plus years I've been Chief, albeit with a few black marks (yes, I know most of them can be directly linked back to Shawn), but regardless of whatever reservations you may have—and rarely hesitate to air—with emphasis—you nevertheless follow orders and always give maximum effort until a case is solved. The one instance in which I can recall that you directly disregarded an order, it was in the interests of saving your partner's life and I don't think there's a person alive who could argue with those intentions, especially given the eventual outcome._

_In fact, no one, looking at our respective records or personal backgrounds could make any kind of argument that we've behaved in anything other than a professional manner with each other or call into question the history of our relationship. They could try, sure, but they'd come up empty and you know it as well as I do._

_When you factor in how rarely we're in the field together, there really is no viable reason for either of us to tender our resignation. The new nature of our relationship might raise some eyebrows, but so long as we're aboveboard and continue to behave as we have in the past, I honestly don't see it becoming an issue. Should someone try to make it into one, believe me, I've got my own cards to play. (Remember those politics you hate so much? It's amazing the dirt you can pick up at those civic leader breakfasts.)_

_So, my dear Carlton, this is me, respectfully telling you to take your resignation and stuff it._

_Yours (definitely),_

_Karen_

_P.S. By the way, in case you were still wondering, yes, I love you._

_P.P.S. Iris is spending the weekend with her father. I'll be at your place by seven. Don't shave. _


	10. Chapter 10

**Have Tomorrow**

Still got no stake in **psych **other than my own enjoyment and that I provide to you lovely readers. TPTB got everything, nothing on my end, blah, blah, OMG we're _almost_ at the end, because… yeah, these pesky characters. They want a proper epilogue after this.

Warning: we're going into unabashed **M** territory again.

* * *

><p>Goddamn son of a <em>bitch<em>.

Carlton slammed his car door shut and jabbed at the remote lock with maybe a bit more force than strictly necessary. Screw that—it _was_ necessary. Because it was nine-thirty. Nine-freakin'-thirty he was finally rolling his exhausted ass home when the woman he loved and hadn't been alone with for two_ months_ had been waiting for him since seven.

The Universe, Unknown, and Hope had some 'splainin' to do.

At least he'd been able to text and warn her that he'd be late. He couldn't deny the deep sense of satisfaction he'd received as he hit "Send" on the text, just from knowing he _could_. That he had the right to say "Hey, honey, I'm sorry, those douchecanoes who've been holding up the area jewelry stores hit again and I'm going to be late." Hell, he'd take O'Hara's astonishment and gentle ribbing over the fact that he'd actually allowed her to drive so he could send the text ten times over. If Spencer said another word about it again, ever, he'd lock his ass in the trunk for any and all future cases.

But now, he was finally home. And so was she. He turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and froze. The small lamp by the door had been left on, bathing the living room in just enough light to feel welcoming. Likewise, in the kitchen, the light over the range was on, revealing the Dutch oven on one of the burners, clearly the source of the oh, God, _so_ good aromas that filled his condo. Carlton sniffed the air appreciatively as he closed the door behind himself and locked it. Short ribs, if he had to guess—French style, with a lot of wine. Looked like during their time apart she'd been developing patience with more recipes. Not to mention, menu planning, judging by the bottle of wine on the kitchen island, uncorked and coming to temperature along with a wedge of cheese, a loaf of bread resting alongside.

For the first time since she'd left two months earlier, Carlton felt like he was coming _home_ instead of just returning somewhere he spent non-work hours. Except for the one thing he'd most looked forward to.

Where _was_ she?

Instinct had him turning toward his bedroom, his breathing coming easier as he saw her, wrapped in familiar blue plaid flannel and curled up on the bed, a book lying facedown just beyond where one hand rested on the mattress. Jasmine and vanilla teased his nose and now... _now_, he was well and truly home. As quietly as possibly, he set the items he'd been carrying down on the bedside table and eased himself down to the mattress, careful not to wake her as he studied her relaxed, sleeping features. With the tip of one finger he brushed a damp lock of hair back from her face, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

"God, I love you."

Words that had never come all that easily to him—even with Victoria, he'd struggled until the point where he knew he'd lost her and what did that say about their relationship, really? With Karen, though, he'd known so quickly, and had felt the urge to say the words to her, long before he had any right to. And now he could.

Probably be more effective when she was awake, though. Although judging by the small smile that curled the corners of her mouth and the way she edged closer, she'd heard him on some level.

Damn, but it was tempting to wake her fully only to kiss her senseless, but the fresh clean scent of her made his sweaty, work-worn condition that much more obvious. Besides—best to let her get as much sleep as possible now, given there wouldn't be much in their immediate future if he had anything to say about it.

He allowed himself a small grin, thinking how far he'd come. One would've thought as impatient as he tended to be, not to mention, after two months of waiting, he'd be just this side of crazed and yeah, he was, but at the same time, there was something to be said for anticipation, allowing a pleasant burn to build low in his belly as the day's stresses washed away beneath the shower's spray. He walked out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and every nerve-ending on alert, to find her still curled on her side, but facing him, her wide dark eyes following his path.

"I take it these are actually intended for me, this time and not just discards?" One finger trailed along a dark glossy leaf of the floral arrangement he'd left on the nightstand, the exotic tropical flowers vibrant even in the low light.

He cringed as he perched on the edge of the mattress beside her. "I was such an ass."

"Yes you were." Her hand dropped to his thigh, her thumb rubbing the sensitive skin just inside his knee. "But it was a different time." One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "We were different people."

"Thank God." He reflected on the desperation of those days—so certain that he and Victoria had finally turned the corner and yet when she'd finally presented him with the divorce papers, the utter inevitability he'd felt. The calm resignation as he'd scrawled his signature across the pages. "I wouldn't ever want to be that man again, Karen."

"You won't be." She gazed up at him, her quiet strength and certainty wrapping around him with the security of a blanket. Her hand continued caressing his thigh, equal parts soothing and arousing.

"So."

He followed the direction her stare was taking. "So."

"I take it that's intended for me, too."

"It is." His heart thundered so hard, his hand trembled as he reached for the small box sitting alongside the floral arrangement. "But only if you want it." His fingers clenched around the box. "Maybe it's too soon, but I'm absolutely certain, Karen and I wanted to…" He swallowed hard, searching for the words. "To do _something_. Because it's not so much about the ceremony or the piece of paper as it is about the promise." Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to unclench his fist.

"This is my promise." With his free hand, he slowly lifted the lid on the box revealing the ring he'd known was perfect for Karen the minute he'd seen it. "I'm yours. Always. If you'll have me."

With a trembling finger, she traced the antique imperial topaz solitaire, the unique reddish stone set in platinum and rimmed in tiny, perfect diamonds. "I never had an engagement ring," she said wonderingly. "We were too broke and I was still in uniform, so it seemed impractical."

"Different people," he reminded her. He reached out and cupped her face, making her look up at him. "So—?" His heart wasn't just thundering now, but going at a speed that he was fairly certain wasn't safe for extended periods of time. But that's what this woman did to him.

"So." Karen smiled in a way that made him feel as if the Universe, Unknown, and Hope had _finally_ gotten their shit together enough for the heavens to part and angels to sing and every other smarmy uplifting cliché he could think of. She shifted, offering him her left hand and damn if his own hands weren't shaking so much he could barely wrestle the ring from its slot. Finally it came free and that was when everything changed, his breathing settling down to normal, his hand steady as he slowly slid it into place, looking as if it had always belonged.

"Carlton, you're not the only one making promises tonight." Her urgent gaze found his, the low light reflecting the multifaceted shades of amber and green and gold normally hidden in her eyes and making them sparkle like the stone he'd just put on her finger. "And I know you said all that about it not being about the ceremony or the piece of paper so as to not put what you think might be undue pressure on me, but that's not you—"

As he opened his mouth to protest, she put her fingers against his lips. "It's not me, either. I _want_ that piece of paper, dammit. I'm just old-fashioned enough to want to be yours in all ways." Then she grinned. "And modern enough to want to make sure everyone knows you're _mine_—in all ways."

"So… you thinking maybe a brand, then?" he murmured against her fingers, the tip of his tongue coming out to tease her fingertips. "A tattoo or an embedded chip?"

"Shut up," Laughing in a way he couldn't have imagined two months earlier, she pulled his head down to hers, her tongue demanding immediate entry. And after two months without this—with nothing but the memory of her touch, with making do with late night phone calls that left the sound of her voice so indelibly imprinted on his brain he could recognize her from more than a room away and sometimes made it damned difficult to work—he was in no mood to go slow. Shifting a knee to the mattress, he moved over her, pressing her down into the bed as he kissed her like he had that afternoon in her office and beyond. Braced on his elbows, he twisted his hands in her hair, holding her steady as learned her all over again, the sweep of her lower lip, the fragrant hollow at the base of her throat, the sounds she made as he trailed his tongue along her neck and down the V of the robe, nudging fabric aside to reveal more skin. As his mouth explored the contours of her breasts, her hands moved to his waist, pulling the towel off with an impatient jerk and urging him to settle more completely over her.

"Need to feel all of you," she whispered, wiggling her way out of the robe and making him groan at all the different ways she was touching him—the glancing brushes of skin against skin, her smooth thigh sliding against his, her nails digging into his shoulders as she pulled him to lie flush against her, her breasts pressed against his chest, their heartbeats vibrating against each other.

For long moments they lay together, the anticipation building even as their breathing slowed.

Tracing her fingertips down the line of his nose until they caught on his lower lip, she asked, "When did you know?"

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he kissed her fingers. "When did the first of those jewelry heists happen?"

Her brows drew together at the seemingly random question. "Um… a few days before I came back to work, if I recall correctly."

Nodding, he said, "Thursday morning. I saw your ring at that first store. It was one of the pieces the thieves didn't take and I knew it was yours." He smiled at the memory–spotting the ring in one of the few cases that hadn't been destroyed and just _knowing_— "Told the owner to hold it for me and I'd be back as soon as the store was released as a crime scene."

Eyes narrowed, Karen stared up at him, long enough to make him feel uncomfortable in a whole different way.

"What?"

"Well, _that_ would explain why he looked so nervous when he came in to the station for the follow up." One perfect eyebrow rose. "Please tell me you didn't threaten the poor man."

He couldn't answer—not that he needed to, because he could feel the telltale heat building at the base of his throat.

"Oh, _Carlton_."

"I didn't really," he protested. "I just stressed it would be in his best interests to make certain the ring remained available. No specific threats were ever uttered. Just… implied."

"I _should_ be angry, you know."

Carlton grinned as she tried to frown but utterly failed, her features softening as she brought her left hand up again, turning it so the light could play off the dozens of brilliant facets.

"It _is_ perfect." Her hand lowered to his head, her fingers playing through his hair and teasing the sensitive skin of his neck, making him shiver. "I'm really not a diamond girl."

"No, you're not," he agreed, his thumb playing along her lower lip, his groin tightening as she nipped at the pad. "The jeweler told me while it's not popular for engagement rings, topaz is actually incredibly appropriate." He lowered his head, putting his mouth right against her ear, whispering, "That the spouse of the wearer will be faithful and loyal forever."

Her breathy, soft "Oh," played across his skin and lifted her chest against his, making him groan as he attempted to gather his scrambled brain cells.

Forget it—he was _dying_ here. "Karen, I need to—"

"God, _yes_."

All it took was a slight shift on her part, an adjustment on his, and then they were finally, completely, utterly together. Sweat beaded along his shoulders and pooled at the base of her throat as slow and deliberate grew into faster and harder with gasps of _yes, please_, as their bodies came together again and again, hers surrounding him in an almost unbearable heat, shuddering powerfully around him and drawing him even closer to the edge.

By some miracle, he was able to hold off just long enough to hold himself suspended above her.

"When did you know?" he demanded.

Taking a deep breath she steadily said, "When I had no choice but to leave you." She lay beneath him, flushed and wide-eyed and absolutely stunning and he knew this was it. There wasn't ever going to be anyone else for him. He drove into her one final time, gasping as she held him close, murmuring his name as he shuddered and lost himself in her.

Silence fell over the room as their breathing slowed. Rolling to his side, he gathered her close, brushing her hair back from her face. "I love you, Karen. I hope you enjoy hearing it, because otherwise, I'm liable to drive you nuts."

"You're liable to drive me nuts anyway," she murmured, the fingers of one hand walking along his chest, tugging lightly at the hair and making him entertain thoughts he had _no_ business entertaining—at least for another fifteen minutes or so. "But not because of that."

She reached up and kissed him, slow and lingering and making him entertain thoughts he _really_ had no business entertaining. For at least another _ten_ minutes. "I love you, too, Carlton. It's crazy how it happened and maybe we're crazy, but I can't think of anyone else I'd rather go crazy with, so I hope you've got the next fifty, sixty years cleared on your calendar."

He grinned down at her, trying to count all the different colors living in her eyes. "You think it'll take us that long to go crazy?"

"Oh, hell no." She kissed him again—this one lighter, sweeter, and full of promise. "But it'll take me at least that long to show you all the different ways I love you. So long as you're game."

So it only took five minutes. He rolled to his back, pulling her over him and grinned.

"Game on."


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

I know you all know the mantra: no ownership in **psych**, no infringement intended, TPTB own everything and all I've got are the storylines that will never get played out beyond here. And now, really and truly, the final installment.

**WARNING:** Shmoop alert is set to DefCon 5.

* * *

><p><em>Exactly six months later, give or take a few days…<em>

"Mommy, are we going to be here long?"

Karen smiled down at Iris as they walked into the station. "No, sweetie. But even though I took the day off, I still need to pick up some paperwork to take home."

Iris tugged at her hand. "Daddy, too?"

Okay, seriously, would her heart ache every single time she heard that? Three months since the first time it occurred and she still hurt in all the best ways. Iris waking up terrified, trapped in the midst of a nightmare and Carlton reaching her first, weaponless, even, since he made a point of locking his gun—because now he was down to only his service revolver—in a safe from the moment he walked in the door to their house. He'd held her and rocked her and swore there weren't any monsters, because they wouldn't dare come in their house and even if they were stupid enough to try, there was no way he'd let them hurt her, ever.

And as she was dozing off, a completely unexpected "I love you, Daddy," had emerged on a sleepy sigh, making Karen cry—and sending Carlton into a complete panic. He'd fretted in that way that drove Karen nuts yet made her love him more—worried Iris wouldn't remember, worried that she would remember and if she did, how the _hell_ were they supposed to handle it? Iris had a father and even if the whipped shmuck had caved to the new wife's demands and moved to Portland, that bastion of patchouli and donuts and liberal hippie licentiousness within weeks of the divorce becoming final, he was _still_ Iris' father and Carlton had sworn to Karen he'd respect that and wouldn't try to usurp his place in Iris' life.

All _night_ he'd fretted. Or would have, except Karen had shut him up the most effective way she knew how.

Thank God, it had occurred on a Friday night so they all had time to recover.

As it turned out, Iris _did_ remember and clearly had every intention of making it a permanent thing, judging by the "Morning, Daddy," with which she'd casually greeted him the next morning.

Not that it should have come as such a surprise, really. Ever since Karen and Carlton had brought their relationship into the open, he'd become the constant male presence in Iris' life. Her divorce had become final in early June with her ex getting married and making his exodus to the wilds of Oregon by the middle of that month, reducing contact between Iris and her father to weekly phone calls. And while Karen made it a point to give Iris privacy for those calls, she hadn't missed how, when passing the phone off to Iris, "Hi, Daddy" had at some point become simply "Hey, Dad."

His loss.

At the same time, she and Carlton had quietly moved on with their own lives, selling both their respective homes and, with Iris' input, buying their own home—a cozy 1920s Spanish Mediterranean with high ceilings, big windows, and not too far from the horse ranch that was Carlton and Iris' weekly date. Late August had brought with it their wedding—small, intimate, and with the exception of the Mariachi band with which Spencer had surprised them, blessedly quiet.

Thank God Carlton had already fallen in the habit of keeping his gun locked away. Bloodshed at a wedding was so tacky.

"Mommy?" Iris tugged at Karen's hand, bringing her out of her head.

"Sorry, sweetie. Just woolgathering."

"How can you gather wool? There aren't any sheep." Iris' fine blonde brows drew together in an expression that had Karen swallowing a laugh at its utter and complete Carlton-ness. In this case, at least, nurture was turning out to trump nature in some respects.

"It's an expression. And to answer your question—" Since her short term memory had finally kicked back into gear, "No, Daddy can't come home with us right now. He has to finish working."

"Soon, though, right?" she demanded.

Karen glanced down at her watch. "Provided no cases come up that keep him late."

"Stupid criminal element," Iris grumbled, again, so thoroughly like Carlton, Karen found herself torn between laughing and groaning.

"Iris—" She was really going to have to talk to Carlton about keeping his muttered asides a bit more quiet.

"What?" she demanded, fists on her hips. "It's true, isn't it?"

"Yes, but—" She sighed in defeat. Wasn't as if either of them were wrong. Most of the criminal element Karen and Carlton dealt with was stupid and they all three hated anything that intruded on their family time.

"You know what—never mind. Why don't you go say hi to Daddy while I get what I need from my office?"

Didn't need to tell the child twice. Dropping Karen's hand she took off before Karen could tell her not to run, her joyous "Daddy!" echoing down the tiled hall.

Following more leisurely, Karen rounded the corner just in time to see Iris launch herself at Carlton, who caught her up and swung her around, a delighted grin wiping the tiredness from his face while over by O'Hara's desk, Spencer mock-pouted, complaining, "Lassie never picks me up and swings me around anymore."

"You're not a little girl, Shawn," Iris informed him tartly from her perch in Carlton's arms, "even if you do scream like one."

Oh dear _God_.

Shaking her head, Karen slipped into her office, resolving to really have a talk with Carlton.

"That was not my fault," the subject of her thoughts said from behind her. "Spencer's the one who couldn't keep it together when Bambi's mother bought it."

"Ah, yes, movie night," Karen recalled as she turned into her husband's arms. "How could I have forgotten?"

The monthly get-together at their house, initiated by Carlton, of all people, for their core group at the SBPD. Not that he actually considered Spencer a member of the core group, but O'Hara definitely was, and given that she and Spencer were still dating, that meant he automatically included himself. As well as Guster. Which he would have anyhow, as Karen had pointed out, to which Carlton had responded that at least then, he would have had justifiable reason for shooting them for trespassing.

Not that he would, these days. Yes, Spencer and Guster still drove him nuts, but overall, Carlton had become far more easy-going—or at least, was far less prone to draw his weapon at the slightest provocation. And in private, with Karen, he continued to be so utterly different from the man most people knew, it was enough to torment her with entirely inappropriate thoughts at the most inconvenient times. Because imagining one's husband in bed while he delivered a briefing on a statewide counterfeiting case originating out of Santa Barbara just couldn't be right, could it?

She gazed up into his face, into those changeable blue eyes that had once upon a time been perpetually trapped between anger and unhappiness, but that were now more often than not brilliant with humor and, like right now, the early stages of arousal, making her wish she _could_ bring him home. Or at least draw the blinds and do bad things to him behind the desk.

Smiling, like he knew exactly what she was thinking—which he probably did, the smug bastard—he ducked his head and kissed her. Not especially long, not even especially passionate, but with them, it never took much.

"How did your morning go?" he asked after he lifted his head, thankfully keeping his arms around her because hey, was the room spinning a little?

"About as expected," she replied, smoothing his dark blue tie. "Two weeks every summer, alternate the major holidays. All very easily agreed upon with no fuss."

The familiar deep slashes appeared between his brows. "I am not putting Iris on a plane by herself."

"Of course not," she reassured him, rubbing his chest in a soothing motion. "One of us will fly with her and maybe for the summer trip, we can drive her up and then spend a night or two at a B and B by ourselves on the way back?" Beneath her palm his skin was _so_ warm, the hair of his chest providing a surprisingly erotic contrast to the fine cotton of the dress shirt covering it.

"_You_ are trying to distract me," he said, his low voice a sensual rumble beside her ear.

"Is it working?" she whispered back.

"I'm still not putting her on a plane by herself until she's like, twenty-five."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "We'll talk about it later."

"No," he countered, "later we'll be doing anything _but_ talking."

"I'll make sure to take a nap, then, so I'm properly rested."

Rather than return her grin, however, he frowned. "You have been sleeping a lot, lately. You're not coming down with something, are you? Do you need to make an appointment with the doctor?"

Before she could respond, however, they were distracted by a commotion in the hallway.

A broad smile broke out on Carlton's face as they both recognized the new arrival. Together, they left Karen's office, Carlton holding his hand out as he said, "Sheridan, I thought you weren't due back for a couple of weeks, yet."

A grinning Sheridan took Carlton's proffered hand in a firm shake. "I'm not, sir, but I had to drop off some paperwork for my reinstatement and as long as I was here, I thought I'd bring someone by to meet you." The young, blond officer, a fading red scar evident on his neck, but otherwise showing no other effects of his near-fatal injury, reached down into the stroller he'd been pushing, and lifted out a pink-wrapped bundle. As the baby yawned and blinked sleepily, Iris crept up beside Karen.

"Who's that, Mommy?"

"That's Officer Sheridan and his daughter—" She raised her eyebrows in question.

"Audrey," Sheridan supplied. "Audrey Charlotte." His guileless blue gaze met Carlton's meaningfully. "My wife came up with Charlotte—it was fairly close and she wanted to honor you in some way." The younger man smiled. "Not like she had to insist or anything. After all, if it wasn't for you, sir, I would never have known my little girl."

Karen blinked furiously as Carlton's hand tightened around hers and he flushed a deep red. As much as he loved the limelight and taking credit for his accomplishments, his part in saving Sheridan's life had been the one instance in which he'd refused any sort of recognition or acknowledgment, turning away all interview requests and crafting, with Karen's help, a sparsely worded statement that amounted to 'no comment' for the department's media liaison to use. Even the mayor's commendation for extraordinary action above and beyond the call of duty lived in a shadowed corner of his office at home and that was only because Karen had insisted on having it framed.

"What does he mean, Mommy?" Taking her cue from the emotionally charged atmosphere, Iris' question emerged barely above a whisper yet it was loud enough for Officer Sheridan to hear.

"Detective Lassiter saved my life," he replied.

"So you were a hero, Daddy." Uttered as a statement rather than a question and accompanied by a glare in Shawn's direction that absolutely dared him to say anything snarky or inappropriately Spencer-like. For once, even the notoriously mouthy psychic seemed to grasp that this was a moment where if he said _anything_ he was liable to get shot and it wouldn't be by Carlton's hand, judging by the stares with which O'Hara, Henry, Guster, and even McNab were nailing him.

Picking up on how Iris had addressed Carlton, Sheridan's gaze shifted from her to encompass both Carlton and Karen. "I'd heard a few things had changed around here. Congratulations sir—ma'am."

"Thank you, Officer Sheridan," Karen replied. As Audrey yawned once again, her arms ached with the memory of what Iris had been like at that age. When not screaming her head off with colic, of course, and even that seemed far away and not so bad.

"Sir, I need to get going soon, but before I do, would you like to hold her?"

Carlton looked surprised but pleased. "I— yes, of course. If it's okay."

"Sure." Sheridan carefully transferred Audrey into Carlton's arms and once again, Karen was struck by how naturally it came to him—the way he instinctively knew how to cradle the baby, supporting her head as he swayed in a soothing, meditative motion.

"Daddy, can I see?"

"Of course." Keeping the baby securely tucked in one arm, Carlton carefully lowered himself into a nearby chair, and drew Iris close with his other, quietly cautioning her to be very gentle as she drew one finger along Audrey's downy cheek, his dark head bent protectively over Iris' blonde. And would her heart always ache like this, every time she saw them together?

She sure hoped so.

"She's pretty. I wonder if ours will be this pretty."

Iris' casual words dropped into a sudden pool of silence. Sheridan, clearly noting Carlton's sudden pallor, bent and rescued his daughter, making his goodbyes to which Carlton managed to reply, his gaze all the while fixed on an equally shocked Karen.

As everyone dispersed with murmurs of having work to do, even Spencer and Guster, Karen tugged at a barely responsive Carlton, urging both him and Iris into her office and firmly closing the door.

"What did she mean?" he asked the room at large as he sank into a chair. His eyes huge and startlingly blue in his pale face lit on Karen first, then Iris. "Iris, baby—what did you mean?" he practically whimpered.

Unconcerned, Iris shrugged. "Mommy was on the phone when she picked me up from school. With the baby doctor."

Carlton blinked, a bit of color returning to his face along with what looked like, to Karen, a shadow of disappointment. "Oh, honey, she's not just a baby doctor. She's a, um…" He struggled for a five-year-old appropriate description of an OB/GYN, finally settling on, "Special lady doctor." His gaze rose and met Karen's as if for affirmation.

She could go with it. It would be easy until she knew for sure. But she and Carlton didn't keep secrets from each other. So she instead said, "Iris, why don't you go to Daddy's desk and play a game on his iPad?" Karen kept her gaze fixed on Carlton's as she spoke, seeing a glimmer of hope turning his eyes a searing blue even as he paled further. She hoped to hell he wouldn't faint. Especially not with Spencer still around. There would be no living that down, ever, no matter how many threats were uttered.

But no, no fainting, as he took a deep breath and collected himself enough to warn Iris, "No looking at case files," as she skipped out of the office. Rising, he poked his head out the door, calling out, "O'Hara, make sure Iris doesn't go poking through the files again."

He waited for O'Hara's cheerful, "No problem," to drift in and even managed to ignore Spencer's, "Hey Iris, bet I can finally beat you at Angry Birds," before closing the door. With rapid, methodical motions, he shut the blinds, the question filling the room further with each sharp twist of his wrist. After closing the final blind, though, he remained facing away from her, one hand braced against the wall. As if too terrified to face her. To face his own hopes.

Slowly, she approached and wrapped her arms around him from behind. "Yes," she whispered. Beneath her cheek, his lean back shuddered so violently, it was almost as if he was on the verge of shattering into a thousand pieces. Her arms tightened around him, holding him as closely as possible.

Her Carlton.

So upright and strong and contrary and difficult, yet so vulnerable on so many levels. It was why she had debated the wisdom of telling him right away. Something like this—should things not go well, and God knows, there were a lot of things that could potentially go wrong—it had the potential to break him and she couldn't stand the thought of that. But she couldn't keep a something like this from him. They'd promised each other from the outset—no secrets—no holding back. This relationship had been too hard fought for—they couldn't risk it. They _wouldn't_.

"I took the test this morning. What Iris heard was me making an appointment to go in for confirmation."

Fine tremors continued running through his muscles—Karen readjusted her hold, sliding one arm high around his chest, her hand resting over his wildly beating heart, the other moving to his back, stroking from shoulder to waist as if calming a skittish horse.

"I swear, I had no idea she'd make the connection, otherwise, I would have said something to you this morning."

"When _were_ you planning on telling me?" His voice was low and unmistakably hurt.

"Tonight, Carlton." It killed her that she'd hurt him, even inadvertently. "You know I could never keep something like this from you. You know I wouldn't." The hand on his back rose to his shoulder and tugged lightly. "Look at me, please."

Slowly, he turned, his pale face set in still lines, his eyes an inscrutable slate blue.

"Carlton, as terrifying as it was the first time, it's even more so this time. I'm older, the risks are higher, I'm going to need you, more than ever—"

"I didn't even know it was possible—" he muttered almost to himself, prompting Karen to jab an indignant finger into his chest.

"Hey, I'm not _that_ old!"

Finally, he appeared to return to the land of the living, high color flooding the broad slashes of his cheekbones as he cringed. "Not what I meant—it's just… well, like you said you're older than you were the first time and I'm not exactly a spring chicken either and you know, once a man gets past a certain age, his little swimmers slow down, although you'd think mine, in particular, would be made of fairly sturdy stock and—hey" His eyes widened. "Why are you laughing?"

Karen giggled helplessly against his chest. "Dear God, I love you."

"I love you, too," he replied, although his voice still held a distinct note of bewilderment.

She leaned back in the secure circle of his arms and looked up into his confused, handsome, utterly beloved features. "You know, Carlton, regardless of our advanced ages," she lifted a teasing eyebrow and watched as his color deepened, "we also haven't exactly gone out of our way to prevent this from happening. In fact," she added, feeling a grin that could only be considered smug tugging at the corners of her mouth, "I'd say, given our… habits, we upped our odds considerably."

"You make a valid point there." A matching grin lit his face and lightened his eyes to a familiar, intense blue. "You're really pregnant?"

She nodded. "I really am. The test even spelled it out—literally. I've got it at home to show you."

In the next moment his grin faded replaced by a somber, intent expression.

"What's that face?" she asked, reaching up to rub at the lines that had appeared between his brows.

He continued gazing down at her, a wealth of emotion battling for dominance in a way that might have made her nervous if it hadn't been that for the fact that overriding them all was the one she knew best—love. "You know," he began slowly, "the last time I saw Victoria—when I signed the divorce papers—I told her that once she walked out, I was going to let go of everything I'd been holding on to. So we could both have tomorrow." He swallowed, the muscles working along the long column of his throat. Beneath her palm, his heart beat strong and steadily, his earlier shock and terror clearly having subsided but leaving behind something more.

"I said that more for her benefit," he said softly. "It was maybe the most altruistic I'd ever been. Not that I necessarily _wanted_ her to find happiness," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "But I wanted her to at least feel as if she was free to do so. Not that anything I said mattered. It already hadn't for a long time."

She studied his face, understanding he was telling her this for a reason. "And what about you?"

"What about me?" His hand covered hers over his heart. "I meant it when I said I was letting go. It was time. But I had absolutely no expectation that I'd ever have that kind of tomorrow."

Karen's heart ached with the echoes of loneliness in his admission. "Always so hard on yourself."

"Maybe so." His other hand toyed with her hair, longer now, pushing it back from her forehead, the tips of his fingers grazing the edges of her ear and making her shiver with anticipation. "Thing is, Karen, without any expectations or seeking it out, it would appear tomorrow still somehow managed to find me." His gaze bored all the way down into the deepest parts of her heart and soul, touching her in ways she'd never imagined.

"You're my tomorrow."

Heat prickled at the backs of her eyes as her hands slid up his chest and around his neck, and she molded herself closely to him, as much to shield him from a world that had so often hurt and disappointed him as it was to feel the fierce strength of his protection surrounding her. Equal partners—equal parts of a whole.

Rising on tiptoe she whispered into his ear, "Guess what?"

She could feel his smile against her cheek. "What?"

"I fully intend for our tomorrow to last forever." She lowered herself and leaned back in his embrace. "Now, do you think you could be persuaded to leave work early and take your wife and daughter home?"

One dark eyebrow rose. "I don't know," he drawled. "My boss can be a pretty tough hardass."

"Oh, I bet she'll be amenable if you ask _really_ nice."

That eyebrow rose higher. "What constitutes really nice?"

Rising on tiptoe once again she whispered a suggestion in his ear that caused his breath to hitch in his chest. And before she could say boo, he was kissing her in a way that caused fireworks to go off behind her closed eyelids and started a heated tingling low in her belly that rapidly left her legs feeling like tapioca.

"How's that for a start?" he said with an all-too-familiar smirk.

She blinked up at him, trying to remember her own name. "Convincing."

His smirk gentled into a loving smile. "Come on. Let's get Iris and go home."

He took her hand and headed for the door, but she held her ground, making him look back. As their gazes met she quietly said, "I really love you, Detective Lassiter."

"I really love you, Chief Vick." Carlton's hand squeezed hers gently, his thumb rubbing possessively over her rings. "By the way, when's the doctor's appointment anyway?"

"Oh—" She laughed softly. "It's tomorrow."

~_fin_

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><p><em>...<em>_or is it?_


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